


when the tides are lowest

by EmmaMae



Series: dangerous men [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: AU where Martin lives, Alternate Universe, Gen, In Game, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Minor Violence, Post Game, Probably ooc, Suicidal Thoughts, established relationship Daud / Teague Martin, high overseer campbell onwards, hints of kink, in which Daud and Martin save each other as well as themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaMae/pseuds/EmmaMae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> ...when the tides are lowest, the truth will be revealed... </i>- The Exquisite Tallboy<br/>Teague Martin had a colourful past smothered with his talk of Strictures and hidden by the uniform he wore. He disguised his need for power with a front of putting the heir Lady Emily on the throne... but there was no hiding from Daud. The shadow at his back, his sword and his shield.<br/>Daud, the Knife of Dunwall, the man who single-handedly sent Dunwall spiralling into chaos and watched it burn around him.<br/>When the time comes, they will both have to learn the true meaning of redemption, in all its gritty and blood-curdling glory. Sometimes, death is kinder than mercy.</p><p>OR What happens when a corrupted Overseer and an Assassin changed by mercy are faced with revolutions, poison, swords and their own emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Contains explicit (I think?) content.
> 
> Set during the High Overseer Campbell mission.
> 
> UPDATED: the content below has been dramatically changed since first being uploaded.

The apartment would do. It was empty, its past inhabitants had been relocated to the Flooded District after showing signs of the sickness, forgotten belongings were cast throughout its rooms and balanced on dusty surfaces. It was high too; far from the prying eyes of the City Watch and the hands of desperate scavengers. An apartment in such fine condition was a rare find in a city of death and decay, most were overrun by rats and weepers, or ruined by exposure to the elements.

Daud blinked to the balcony where he set the squirming Overseer on his feet. Martin staggered for a moment, his gloved hands clasping on to the steel railings as he fought to maintain his balance. Daud would have laughed at the Overseer's reaction to transversing for the first time, but there were more important matters at hand. He pushed the doors to the apartment open and shoved Martin inside.

"Have you ever even heard of manners before? It's common decency to at least say 'hello' before abducting a person, Daud." Martin said gruffly, catching himself on the edge of the table before he fell over completely.

"It's not an abduction if you knew I were coming." Daud responded, clicking the doors shut.

The room was plunged into darkness and for a moment Martin couldn't distinguish Daud's figure from the shadows. There was quiet _hush_ sound followed by a slight breeze carrying the uneasy feeling of lingering dark magic, and the assassin's scarred face was suddenly illuminated by a lit match from the other side of the room. Daud lit a candelabra and set it on the central table. It didn't give off much light but it was enough to envelop the entire room in a flickering orange glow.

Martin continued to scowl sourly in Daud's direction. He had always passed a blind eye over Daud's connection to the Outsider but it was difficult to ignore something when the man insisted on using the dark magic so frivolously. "I didn't know for certain."

"No but you guessed. You wouldn't have told Corvo that you'd make your own way to the pub if you hadn't already planned a way of doing so. And I've already experienced your attempt at sneaking around to know how successful you'd be at getting passed the other Overseers and the City Watch. You were hoping that I'd turn up, even if you hadn't admitted it to yourself." Daud arched a brow at Martin, knowing that his assumptions were correct.

Martin scoffed. "Well you're certainly very sure of yourself tonight."

"Am I wrong?"

The Overseer lowered his gaze then, ashamedly, his hand grazing across the stubble of his chin as he considered his words. As a devout man, he didn't believe in lying, it went against the Second Stricture after all.  "No." 

Daud smirked at that. Martin was a rare creature. He had been a face among many in the sea of bodies writhing in Holger Square during the Fugue Feast, yet the only one who actually paid the assassin any attention whilst nameless others drowned their morals in tides of whiskey and women. Even then Daud had sensed that there was something different about Martin, something dangerous, something hidden and constrained, waiting to be let loose.

Yet he would never have guessed at this. No matter how far Daud drove his blade in, no matter how many layers he scraped back, he would never have gotten close to what he saw now.

Martin was an Overseer. He'd known that for quite some time now, although the very thought still made his stomach churn and his mark _burn_. His prayers may have been hollow but he still wore the collar of a priest, he still wore that wretched mask. Worse than an Overseer, Martin was a conspirator, an aid to the cause that would eventually seek Daud's blood. And that had been a very surprising revelation. 

In Daud's line of work, he was very rarely surprised at anything. He'd eavesdropped on plenty of conversations rich with heresy and treason, he'd uncovered many unpleasant secrets about the unlikeliest of people, and he'd learned quickly that _everyone_ had as many secrets to spill as they did blood.

Daud thought he knew most of Martin's dirty little secrets, things that the Abbey would brand him for if they ever caught wind of them. He knew of the small section of Martin's body that, when kissed, sends him into euphoria without any further encouragement. He knew of every pale scar that crossed his skin. He knew that the man had a mask kink and revelled in being tied up and _controlled_. He knew that Martin hailed from Morley, although he would never admit it anyone, and that the Strictures he swore fealty to were nothing but a meal ticket and his way of disappearing. Daud thought that he knew Martin, more than anyone, but he did not know this.

Martin was a risk. Dangerous. And that was something that both terrified and excited Daud. The truth was - Martin was a lot like himself. And Daud loved that.

"Strip." He ordered.

"What?" Martin demanded. His head snapped up and his blue eyes were fierce and challenging. Daud said nothing; only watched Martin's face crease with heated suspicion.

The assassin appeared in front of Martin; his eyes blazing with something more than desire. His breath, still bitter with the scent of tobacco, scrapped against Martin's cheek as he spoke. "You heard me. _Strip_."

Martin's blue eyes were hard with resistance and anger. He hissed: "No. I don't want t-"

Daud didn't let him continue. He crushed his mouth to his, scars and stubble colliding, the taste of tobacco whisky and blood mixing on their tongues. Gloved hands tore at the priest's thick woollen coat, shedding layer upon layer of clothing and carefully concealed lies from Martin's back, itching to see - to taste- whatever it was that lay beneath. He wanted skin, he wanted sweat, he wanted to tear into Martin like a starved animal.

Martin made quiet, pleading, sounds of protest that were almost silenced by the weight of Daud's tongue. He tried to shove Daud away from him; hands clawing at the assassin's leather coat.

Daud barely noticed the attempts against him.

As the elder man snapped at Martin's belt, his force on the priests lips faltered and Martin pulled away, gasping for air. He slapped at Daud's hands, lunging backward with his back flush against the door.

"No." He said, voice rasping as he caught his breath. Martin's trembling hands combed through his dark hair, the blue eyes watching Daud were wide with caution. "No." He repeated.

Daud tilted his head to the side; quietly observing the other man's movements. "No?" He asked.

"The Sixth Stricture states-"

"Martin, I have no tolerance of those blasted strictures. If I cared for restricting the wanton flesh I would never have accepted your company during the Fugue Feast. Besides, I believe we've all but obliterated that stricture, don't you think?" Daud would have laughed but he was not a man for such things. He'd learned long ago that the life he had chosen to lead was a life bleached of all laughter and smiles. And there was no humour in the sharpness in Martin's eyes, nor in the stubbornness that kept his jaw locked and his fists clenched.

"Loop holes, Daud." Martin's gaze hardened. "We may have performed sexual acts but never sex itself. I've been restricting wanton flesh from the moment I met you."

"You really are an interesting creature."

"How so?"

"You're more willing to overthrow the Lord Regent than you are to have sex with me." 

Martin's eyes narrowed at the mention of his plot against the new Lord Regent. "How did you know about that?"

"I listen." Daud smirked. "I overheard you're little conversation with the Lord Protector earlier - I know all about the Loyalists, Martin."

"That's none of your business." The Overseer snapped. "Besides, since when have we ever discussed anything _political_?"

Daud stepped forward, his marked hand gently caressed Martin's chiselled jaw, the black marking tingled slightly from beneath his glove.

"Never." The assassin replied.

His lips pressed against Martin's again, it was rough and hot, the kiss raw with hunger. Martin's cheeks flushed pink as a hand found its way down his trousers, a wave of heat passed through him as Daud stroked him, and it was almost enough to make him spill messily right there and then. But he held back, squirming stubbornly against Daud once more. He broke the kiss, turning away roughly so that his lips were to Daud's ear.

"Stop!" He half cried and half moaned. Daud's hand stilled but didn't withdraw. Martin struggled to calm his breathing, his chest heaving against Daud's. His hands lifted to either side of the assassins face and forced him back so that he could look him in the eyes. "By the Void, you can't just force me into this."

Daud said nothing. He watched Martin curiously, his eyes dark, pupils blown with lust.

"You shouldn't have overheard that conversation. What were you doing there?" Martin said, his breathing was haggard and his head was beginning to ache. His hands slipped from Daud's jaw to rest idly on the lapels of the assassins coat.

"I heard you were all chained up and I just couldn't deprive myself of that." Daud smirked, leaning in to kiss Martin again, softer this time. He didn't want to talk business, Outsider's eyes he didn't want to talk at all. He wanted to feel Martin's sleek body beneath his own, he wanted to kiss touch and _bite_ every stretch of his pale skin, he wanted to hear Martin scream and beg.

"Daud..." Martin sighed, submitting to his lips and gentle touches. The older man took Martin's hands from his shoulders and clasped them in his own, Daud pinned him against the wall, hands held just above the Overseer's head. With one gloved hand holding him there, Daud used the other to undo the remaining buttons of the other man's undershirt. Martin's creamy chest was flushed with want, and Daud found him to be warm too, as his lips traced the hard muscular lines and rough scars. And the small whimpers that tumbled from his parted lips inspired Daud's to slip back under Martin's trousers and to _move_ , to encourage more of those guttural noises until every muscle in Martin's body was tight with restraint and his head knocked back in euphoria, Daud wanted to watch Martin come undone. He went slow at first, so _tediously_ slow, and Martin gritted his teeth in irritation.

"By the Void, I haven't the patience for this, _do something_." The Overseer had spat at him, hips jolting to create a little more friction, his hands twitched from above his head, a threat to do job himself if Daud continued at this pace.

The assassin took his hand away completely; Martin groaned loudly with dissatisfaction. He pressed his hips against Martin's and the Overseer gasped at the feeling of Daud's erection against his own. The older man's gloved hands raked over Martin's pale chest, fingers pressing harshly into the firm muscle, he was almost examining him. Martin bit down on his bottom lip.

Their bodies were pressed together so tightly that he could feel Daud's body heat through the many layers of his clothing. He'd never seen the assassin this way; with his wet lips parted while he panted like a dog, eyes glassy but wide open and watching, sweat forming on his neck and forehead. It was as if he was acting purely on impulse, which was strange for a man who always seemed so tactful and careful.

Daud's hips began to move, slowly, thrusting against Martin and eliciting more of those gorgeous noises. Even through the layers of fabric separating them, each movement sent a wave of heat through him. He began meeting Daud with a roll of his hips, moving together, lips raking skin and breath coming out in short pants. Daud's teeth sank into Martin's bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he moaned into the assassin's mouth. Daud lapped at the blood, his tongue soothing, and then drew his bottom lips into his mouth and sucked. 

As pleasant as it was, Martin was beginning to get impatient with the overabundance of clothing. "What are you waiting for? _Touch me_."

The corner of Daud's mouth tugged up, his eyes were dark and spelled trouble. "As you wish."

The assassin gripped Martin by the hips and threw him to the bed. He straddled the Overseer's waist, ripping the remaining clothes from Martin's skin, as well as his own, until there was nothing left between them. Skin to skin; flesh to flesh.

Martin didn't squirm, as much as he knew he should have, he didn't stop Daud. He grinned up at his partner, all thoughts of the Abbey discarded with his clothes, the strictures were silent in his mind. None of it mattered, not here, with Daud's tongue marking a trail across his skin. He didn't think of the sixth as Daud gripped Martin's pale cheeks and lapped at his tight entrance. And when Daud hooked two fingers inside him, easing and stretching him, brushing against his golden spot light, he reduced him to nothing but a quivering wreck of sweat and want. Martin called out his name as he came, hips jutting without rhythm as he painted the little space between them, and Daud indulged himself on the sound as he stroked Martin through it and whispered encouraging things.

Martin was keen to return the favour, his lips and tongue sucking and licking a trail down the assassin's heated body, until settling between his thighs. The things the man could do with his mouth was truly amazing, from the quick quips, the truly convincing sermons at the chapel in the Estate District, to the obscene but mesmerising wonders he performed on Daud's body. Martin was truly wasted on the Overseers. When Martin had swallowed every last drop of his seed, Daud pulled him up kissed him hungrily, tasting himself on the Overseer's tongue, which really shouldn't have been as erotic as it felt.

Daud lined up their cocks, a calloused thumb running down Martin's length, and hips rolled in a perfect and fluid rhythm that had them both panting and cursing within minutes. He pressed his lips against Martin's in a sloppy and open-mouthed kiss, his thrusts picking up speed, until Martin was begging for Daud to fuck him.

And he did.

When it was all over, Daud withdrew and held the Overseer to him, and Martin yawned sleepily against the warmth of Daud's skin. Both were strangely contented to lie entangled post-orgasm, Daud's fingertips absently tracing the curve of Martin's back, and it was in this comfortable haze that they fell asleep.

 Hours later, Daud awoke and pried himself away from Martin, silently tugging on his clothes. He thrust open the doors to the balcony, letting the glowing light of sunrise flood the room, and stood there for a while as the morning breeze cooled his heated skin. Martin blinked blearily at the light pouring in and bleaching the shadows from the room, rising slowly to dress, and then joined him at the doorway. Daud didn't need to ask, or even say a word, Martin simply folded his hand in Daud's and trusted him.

Daud blinked from the filthy room, with Martin firmly held at his side, and they travelled across rooftops in the light of the bright morning sun; towards the Wrenhaven River.

 

* * *

 

 

It was dark in the bar of the Hounds Pits. Silver slithers of moonlight slipped through the cracks in the boarded windows, a spotlight for the dust motes dancing past empty bottles and dirty glasses, bleaching the dank bar of colour and leaving it streaked in black and silver.

Martin was the only one who remained. Hours of drinking, discussing business, and trading tales had left Havelock and Pendleton exhausted, both had retired almost an eternity ago. The young red head and the footman had swept around the bar, tinkering with the taps and counting supplies, barely bothering to collect the discarded bottles and empty plates. Twice the red head had offered to prepare him a bed in whatever room he desired, but Martin had waved her off both times.

He had no desire to sleep, to submit to the torture of endless nightmares, those gut-wrenching images of blood... No, he'd rather stay awake and be permanently tired.

And so he stayed seated in the booth that he'd shared with the Admiral and the Aristocrat, his only company a bottle of Old Dunwall and his tattered book of strictures. The leather binding was worn and faded, the pages yellow, the lettering pale, yet Martin never felt the need to replace it. The sentiment he held for the old book had nothing to do with the name scrawled on the first page, almost entirely faded yet he'd memorised every curve of her handwriting until it had been engraved into his memory. Elspeth Martin, his mother. No, his love for the book had nothing to do with her being the previous owner, the one who had pressed it into his palm as she passed from this world. He told himself that it was habit, faith, obedience, that it was completely normal for an Overseer to grip hold of the strictures in times of stress. Faith. Nothing more.

He held onto the cover with white knuckles, eyes squeezed shut, as he began to murmur the sixth of the strictures below his breath. It helped, believe it or not, it helped him feel at ease when his hands begin to shake and his head reeled with memories of the previous night. It helped him _deal_ with it all, whether or not people actually believed that he was as righteous as he made out to be. With a past as colourful, or a body as scarred and pock-marked as his, it really was hard to believe that he'd turn to the faith as willingly as he had. But it was the truth.

"Your strictures won't do you any good, Martin." A voice growled from the shadows of the pub.

Martin peeled his eyes open, scouring for the person in the dark. It was almost impossible in a room so far from the light, with only the slight speckle of silver to guide his eyes, yet he found him. A dark figure leaned lazily against the bar, head stooped down to look at the glass clutched in his hand.

"How did you find me?" Martin asked, his voice rough and oddly pitched after so many hours of silence and half-whispered prayers. The question hung in the air for several long moments, tasting the damp and bitter air of the pub, as the figure raked a hand through his dark strands and exhaled loudly.

"I followed you here." He said at last. "I couldn't let you walk the rest of the way on your own. Someone had to make sure you didn't bump into any Hatters or Bottle Street on your way.."

"I can handle myself, Daud." Martin's brow furrowed. He hated it when the other man did this, when he treated him like a delicate little flower, as if he needed to be guarded and protected all the time. It was infuriating at best.

Daud drank deeply from his glass and then placed it on the already littered bar. He turned to face the Overseer; even though Martin couldn't distinguish his eyes he could feel the burn of his gaze on his skin. "I know you can." He said softly.

Martin tore his eyes from the assassin, settling on an old advertisement for ale that was being used to board up the window beside him, he examined the flaking paint and the deep grooves in the wood, and pretended not to hear the sound of Daud's boots against the floorboards. Each step was heavy and deliberate, echoing throughout the empty bar. Daud slid into the seat opposite him, his sharp features and that unsettling scar illuminated by the light of the moon, those dark eyes still branded to his skin.

"For a master assassin, you walk too loudly." Martin commented dryly.

Daud smirked, his lips curving in a way that sent a flicker of heat through Martin as he watched from the corner of his eye, and the Overseer found himself silently cursing the man and his damnable smile. A leather gloved hand reached over the table, and Martin's whole body tensed as he waited for the contact to be made, but it didn't. Daud cupped the bottle of whiskey in his hand and drew it up to the sliver of light, squinting slightly as he read the label.

"Ah, bless this pub and their wonderful stock of whiskey." Daud said, uncorking the bottle with a pop and putting it to his lips. The copper liquid splashed at the sides as it slipped, gulp by gulp, down Daud's throat.

"You've drunk here before?" Martin asked.

Daud nodded, setting the bottle down, flinching slightly as the burn of alcohol licked at his mouth and throat. "Once or twice, before plague set in and turned this city to ash. You?"

"Yes, often actually, I knew the previous owner, as well as a few others in this area. Decent people, just trying to earn their keep like every other poor soul in this side of the city. Havelock told me that they're now stumbling around in the sewers below the pub, eyes weeping red."

Daud nodded understandingly. He'd seen his fair share of weepers; the lost and decaying bodies of men and women wandering aimlessly with nothing more than a soulless grunt and a trail of blood behind them. Sometimes, he'd see a twisted face he recognised, and he'd feel a deep-rooted pang of sorrow. It was no way for a person to die; in a state that was barely seen as human with no mind left to cling to, nothing but pain and plague. He'd see a flicker of the person that was in their eyes as he burrowed his blade into their chest, before leaving the body for the rats. He raised the bottle to his lips once more, grateful for the numbing affect it had on him. It was silent for a moment, as both men sunk slightly lower in their seats sullenly. Martin reached for the bottle in Daud's hand, he gulped down a portion of the dark liquid loudly before slamming it down on the table between them.

"Isn't it heresy for an Overseer to drink?" Daud asked softly, eyes raking in the sight of Martin. And my, what a sight he was. Large dark circles enveloped his deep blue eyes, aging him by a good decade. The silver light made his skin look paler and brought out the small scars across his cheek and forehead and a thin layer of stubble was beginning to coat his jaw. The Overseer certainly did look worse for wear.

Martin snorted. "It's hard to restrict rampant hunger when taking refuge in a pub. And I'd say it was a little late to worry about breaking a stricture or two."

"I'd be careful if I were you. You never know when an agent of the Outsider may subject you to heresy." Daud murmured, his voice rough.

Martin's eyes flicked down at Daud's left hand, although it was gloved he could almost see the black lines of the mark, his stomach churned. Daud slipped the hand under the table and out of the Overseer's view, knowing all too well what Martin was thinking. Martin's own hand fell to the small black book resting on the sticky surface of the table. He squeezed its pages slightly, as if the words could pass through his palm and cleanse his soul.

"Why are you here?" He didn't lift his gaze as he spoke. Something in the back of his mind warned him not to look, in fear of what he'd see in the assassin's eyes.

"To apologise." Daud's voice cracked as he spoke, causing Martin to flinch and his grip tighten on the book. "I know what I made you give up the other night, and I know that it will weigh heavily on your mind for some time."

"I don't want to talk about it." Martin said.

Martin fought against the oncoming wave of images. Memories crashed over him, and he buckled, seeing the scene all over again in his head. Daud, above him and panting. Hips thrusting against his pale and quivering skin. Bodies slick with sweat and semen. The room had smelt of damp and sex. Martin had cursed his body for responding so eagerly to Daud's advances, for his mind to be silent as they'd kissed, and he'd murmured his strictures between gasps and moans. And everything had _hurt_.

"Martin..." Daud said softly, covering the Overseer's hand with his own, and he squeezed it as if to give him comfort. But Martin was foreign to the concept. Instead, he was scrambling to maintain the small shreds of dignity he had left, clumsily stitching up the pieces with faith and whispered strictures. In truth, he was embarrassed to have given in so easily. He tore his hand, and the book it clutched so desperately, away from Daud's grasp and held it defensively against his chest.

"Leave. I don't want you here." Martin snapped.

Hurt flashed across Daud's eyes, but he knew that it was much less than he deserved. He hadn't expected to be able to sit and drink with him as long as he had, Martin had every right to kick him out the moment he set foot inside the bar, but he hadn't. Daud couldn't allow himself to believe that perhaps Martin hadn't been entirely against him being there until now, he had no claim to believe such things. It was a strange thing, beating at another's faith until it finally cracked, it left him feeling more guilt than he'd previously thought. Once the thought had pleased him, now it left him feeling sick.  

He rose from the booth, his stance much less secure than before he'd gulped down half a bottle of Old Dunwall, and headed to the door.

"Take care, Martin." He said over his shoulder, not wanting to look back at him hunched over the table, eyes glossy and cheeks damp.

For days afterward, Martin continued his work with the Loyalists, keeping his head down and focussed on the strategies and plans laid out before him. He plotted their moves against the Lord Regent, and prepared means of protection for himself, Havelock, and Pendleton in preparation of what was to come. And at night, as he fought against any wavering tendrils of sleep, he walked along the small riverfront, admiring the way the moonlight hit the Wrenhaven, and pretending that he hadn't noticed the figure watching from the rooftops.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mature content
> 
> Set after The Royal Physician and ends just before The Flooded District

Martin watched the sun dip below the distant rooftops of the opposite bank, the sky cracked and burned like the dying embers of an untended hearth, glaring flames of oranges and pinks flaring across the expanse above him. It cast long shadows over the small dock where he was perched, bathing the pub's courtyard in a strange and golden hue. He would have described it as beautiful once, back before the skyline was littered with crumbling buildings and the dominating towers of the city watch, and the air was polluted death and disease. Once, Dunwall could have been described as a very beautiful city, but that was time before the plague and before the diplomatic corruption.

He sat with his boots skimming the surface of the water, gloved hands cast behind him lazily on the cool concrete ground. It was remarkably peaceful, strangely enough, he hadn't expected that. He'd thought that by aiding the Loyalists he'd be constantly battled with plans and strategies, far too busy with the boring but necessary side to their mission, but it hadn't panned out that way. Sure, there was a lot of work to be done, and it wasn't without its risks. But there were great periods of time throughout the day when there was simply _nothing to do_. The worst was usually when Corvo was out doing his dirty business, when the Conspirators found themselves struck with fear of discovery, all of them waiting for the sounds of the City Watch marching towards them with weapons poised. It was those times that were the most painful.

Corvo had returned with the young Lady Emily seated beside him in that little boat of Samuel's hours before. It had been a huge relief to see that young girl step on to their soil, and Martin took it as a sign of hope, that perhaps their cause really had a chance of working. And it was strangely comforting to see the former Lord Protector with a smile on his face.

From somewhere above him, he heard the soft click of a door closing. He glanced up at the tower to see Corvo heading towards his own quarters, his footsteps causing the makeshift walkway to wobble slightly with each step. It had been hard on him, leaving Emily to go to Kaldwin's Bridge to collect Anton Sokolov, the Royal Physician, but he had left anyway. And he had carried out the job marvellously, returning with the unconscious physician and had reported no fatalities, much to Havelock's disbelief. It hadn't surprised Martin though, Corvo may have been an unyielding force in their plight to place Lady Emily on the throne, but he wasn't without mercy. No matter what the Empire thought of him, or whatever memories of the Empress's death haunted him, the Lord Protector was acting with the best of intentions. And Martin wasn't sure how he felt about that. 

Yet, it was good to see the Lord Protector and the young and future Empress reunited, for however brief it may be.

It was dark now, the flaming sky had burned away, leaving bright and twinkling stars reflecting against the water. He could hear the boatman's faint snores echo from the small shack in the courtyard, and the slight whisper of conversation from an open window of what he thought to be the servants room, other than that it was eerily silent. And he let the silence comfort him; it was a great deal better than listening to horrified screams and a thunder of City Watch guns. It was nice, actually.

At some point, although he couldn't quite remember when, the murky waters of the river faded into darkness as he succumbed to sleep.

 

When he awoke, he was surprised at the feeling of warmth and how strangely comfortable he was. When he was conscious enough to crack an eye open, he realised that he was no longer at his perch beside the Wrenhaven, but was somewhere else entirely. The room was small and dirty, the aged floor boards were littered with damp papers and crumbled plaster, the mattress he lay on was threadbare and smelt of old socks. It wasn't entirely dark, a few stray tendrils of sunlight had slipped between the gaps of the boarded window, just enough to illuminate the little room with a golden light.

He forced himself to sit up, despite his body's protests, and noticing for the first time that someone had removed his jackets as he remained in only his undershirt and trousers. His boots sat on the floor beside the bed, he slipped them on and stood. He figured that he couldn't be far from the Hounds Pits, the air held that familiar scent of river krusts and foul smelling river water.

He found his jacket and over shirts folded neatly on a table on the opposite side of the room, which he thoughtlessly shrugged on and began snapping the various buckles into place. It felt odd being without his jacket, he hadn't taken it off since before his time in the stocks, it was strange how something so futile brought him an odd sense of comfort. Where the garment had lain was a small creased sheet of parchment, Martin raised it to the light and squinted at the scrawled handwriting.

_'Sleeping beside a river wasn't your best idea, perhaps try a bed once in a while, a drowned priest has no use to anyone. - Daud'_

He should have known Daud had been behind his relocation. Martin wasn't a stupid man, he knew that the old assassin had been keeping an eye on him over the past few days, and he knew that it wasn't within the man's nature to comply to any sort of order, even one as simple as ' _leave_ '. Worryingly, Martin wasn't at all fazed by the idea of Daud carrying him to this apartment, undressing him and laying him across the bed. In fact, the endearing thought brought a slight smile to the Overseer's face.

He found a small blunt pencil near the edge of the table's surface. He gripped it and rolled it through his fingers, chewing on his words for a moment. And then he pressed the lead to the paper and held his breath as he wrote.

_'Meet me here at sundown, and by the Void don't be late.'_

He knew that he'd most likely regret it, and a small part of him hoped Daud never saw the note, but he pushed all thoughts of Daud from his mind as he stepped out of the small apartment and onto the street outside the Hounds Pits. He wondered if anybody had noticed his absence, but he doubted that if they had, no one would mention it. He pushed the bar door open and was surprised to see the future Empress sat hunched over the bar with a crayon held tightly in her hand.

"Morning, your Highness." He chimed, walking up to the bar beside her, picking up a Tyvian pear and taking a bite.

"Good morning, Martin." Lady Emily barely glanced up at him, her dark brown eyes fixated on whatever scene it was she was drawing.

He glanced over the piece of paper, half expecting to see some childish scribbling, and instead was met with something much more surprising. It was obscured by the child's innocence, and enhanced with the bright coloured crayons, but it was undeniably Daud cradling an unconscious Martin to his chest. He raised his brow at the small hearts around the pair, and the bright pink jacket replacing Daud's usual red brought a smile to his face.

"You have quite a talent, your Majesty." Martin said softly.

"Thank you." She murmured, swapping the blue crayon for a brown one, presumably to colour in the Overseer's hair.

"Could I ask for a small favour?" Martin asked. Lady Emily looked up at him, those large brown eyes glimmered with curiosity. "Could you not mention this to anyone? It could be our little secret."

Her brow creased a little. "Is this because the Abbey are against two men loving each other?"

Martin's eyes widened at the 'l' word. "I don't lo-"

"When I'm Empress, I'm going to change that law. It shouldn't be a crime to love." Emily said, cutting Martin off, determination set deep into her eyes.

Martin smiled softly. He really was warming to the little one, she truly was something else. "I'm sure you'll be a great Empress, Lady Emily."

She beamed up at him, her little square teeth visible as she grinned, and Martin couldn't help but let his own smile widen. Lady Emily looked down at her drawing, now satisfied with her progress, and folded it in half and handed it to the Overseer. He took it hesitantly.

"Think of it as a promise." She told him, collecting her crayons in her small hands. She slid off of the stool and skipped out of the bar to the courtyard, where Martin could hear Callista calling for her.

Martin sighed, folding the sheet in half once more, and pressed it into a pocket on the inside of his coat. He hoped to forget about it, yet he found himself reaching to touch it more than his book of strictures over the course of the day; he tried not to think about that.

 

* * *

 

 

Martin glared at the tightly scrawled hand of the former High Overseer, at its smudges and water stains from a glass of spilt whiskey, a drop of blood here and there. It was a despicable collection, one that made the hairs on the back of Martin's neck stand on end as he read, it made his fingers itch to grapple on to his book of strictures and pray for forgiveness for even _following_ this gross excuse of a man. The black book had contained more information than they needed - than _anyone_ needed - to know. It held documented the names of those he'd blackmailed, seized property from, and outright murdered.

Martin's stomach clenched slightly as he read names of Overseers he'd known, joked with over rationed bread and Serkonan grapes, some he'd even bunked with since joining the Abbey. Wilkins, Hayes, Brady, and more, had felt the end of Campbell's corruption. Just a few months previous Campbell had Overseer Hudson cast out of the order with a sizzling brand on his face and the scent of seared flesh had lingered in the Interrogation Room for weeks afterwards, no matter how many fragrant flowers Overseer George had placed in there. That was, until Campbell had banned all flowers from the Interrogation Room, insisting some nonsense about how mourning heretics would lead to an errant mind. 

He wondered whether anyone back at the Abbey was missing him, now that he'd escaped. Somehow, he doubted it. It wasn't as if he'd ever really mixed with the others, they could all somehow tell that he didn't quite belong in the order, all too wary of the scars that crossed his skin and the past he avoided talking about. Perhaps Overseer George thought about him at times, he had given the younger Overseer a couple of lessons on using a firearm, and Martin had felt rather fond of the clumsy curly-haired teenager. And then he thought about Corvo, slipping through the Abbey like a ghost, and how he'd announced with few words that the High Overseer had been branded and cast from the Abbey. But at what cost? How many lives were claimed by Corvo's blade? His brothers, the Overseers, which of them fell without as much as a cry?

His eyes strayed from the yellow pages of Campbell's book to the leather binding of the strictures, of the faded name written on the inside of the cover, and sighed. Would she be proud? Would his mother be proud of him for what he'd done? Somehow, Martin doubted it.

"Overseer Martin?"

He glanced up to see the redheaded girl stood at the edge of the booth, her scarred hands fidgeting with an old dishcloth, a few loose strands of her bright red hair had fallen from her cap and now framed her pale and freckled face. She squirmed under his gaze, which strangely made him smile, and she kept her eyes trained on the floor.

"Can I help you?" Martin asked.

"Umm.. Wallace is insisting for me to make up a bed for you. I thought I should ask you where you'd like to board." She fumbled with her words as she spoke, not with stupidity, no she had a sharpness in her eyes that often came with education which surprised him for a girl of her standing, but with a discomfort for being around those of a higher status. Not that he regarded himself as being a higher status than her, he too had come from nothing, it was just a matter of context.

"I had no need of a bed last night, or when you asked the first time, and I won't need one tonight. Or any other night for that matter. I don't plan on sleeping." He answered simply, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the growing stiffness that comes with sitting in one position for too long.

She frowned. "Why not?"

Martin's lip curled up at her slip in formality. Her eyes widened as she realised how she sounded and stuttered to correct herself. He stopped her with a slight wave of his hand. "I don't want to sleep in fear the nightmares lurking there."

He regarded her with a levelled gaze and kept his voice low, he'd be damned if Havelock overheard him, the Admiral would be relentless in his petty teasing. Cecilia nodded understandingly, her deep blue eyes soft. Martin's eyes flicked to the door to the courtyard, through which Havelock stepped through, letting the door slam loudly against its frame.

"Besides, there aren't any spare beds. It would be selfish to force someone out of theirs." Martin continued with a more audible voice.

"You're certainly not having mine!" Havelock jeered as he poured himself a glass of beer. The girl gave Martin a small smile before turning and leaving the room.

Havelock sauntered from the bar and to the booth at which Martin had settled in, loud and heavy footsteps echoing through the room. The Admiral had presence, he could fill a room with his voice and his mass, and his speeches could rally a crowd in an instant. The quaint pub seemed too small for Havelock; or perhaps Havelock was much too large for the pub. He slid onto the seat across from Martin, a small and sly smile creeping on to his face, it was dangerous smile that spelled death.

"What other secrets of the former High Overseer have you managed to uncover?" The Admiral asked.

"There are many revolting and equally delighting things contained in the journal, Havelock, you would be surprised at the things Campbell had hidden up his sleeve." Martin replied lazily, closing the book and pressing his gloved palm against the cover.

"Anything that we could make use of?" Havelock arched a brow, his smile widening.

"Plenty."

 

* * *

 

 

At sundown, Martin crept into the small hallway of the abandoned apartment. It was eerily silent, and that irked him slightly. He wondered whether Daud had seen the note at all,  or had and decided not to meet him, or whether Daud had finally left him to his business, and strangely all three thoughts sent a crippling stab to the pit of his stomach. Yet when he stepped into the bedroom, he found Daud sat on an old wooden chair in the corner, and Martin felt something similar to relief wash over him.

The apartment was a desolate and forgotten collection of rooms, littered with damp and rotting walls, the air thick with mildew and the metallic scent of blood. As an Overseer, Martin had been spared from places such as this for a long time, the marble corridors of the Office of the High Overseer and the comforting light of the small chapels around Dunwall seemed so distant, so far removed from places such as these. But this was the reality of Dunwall. Ruin and death.

It should have unnerved him, but it didn't. He had come from an apartment similar to this, back in Morley, he had spent his early adulthood taking refuge in the lonely and forgotten places of the Empire. The grime places like these leave on one's skin never really comes off, it only fades over time.

It felt right for them to meet in these such places; concealed in a room barely grazed by light. almost a reflection of whatever connection they shared.

"I presume you're not here to talk." Daud said, his voice cutting through the stifling silence of the room.

"No, I'm not." Martin replied gruffly.

Truth be told, he hadn't been sure what he'd intended to do until he got there, yet as his eyes grazed over Daud's body he let his instinct take over. He unfastened his coat and tossed it to the floor as he strode over to the assassin. He sat on Daud's lap, legs straddling the older man's hips, their chests flush together. Martin dragged his bottom lip across Daud's cheek, over his rough scars and sharp stubble, until meeting his lips. He wanted to resent Daud for what he did, he wanted to hate him, but in that squalid little room he could only think about Daud's mouth on his.

Martin had always appreciated Daud's physical prowess - the broad line of his shoulders and the solidity of his lean body. He loved to run his hand down his chest and feel the curves of his hard sleek muscle beneath the shirt. And when he straddled him, he loved to feel the coiled strength under his skin surge beneath him. To feel the rising heat in his groin. Daud's hands slipped beneath Martin's shirt, fingernails scraping down his hot flesh, Martin gasped at the sensation and nipped Daud's bottom lip in return. The older man rolled his hips slightly, his swelling cock rubbing against Martin's thigh. Martin smiled against his lips, enjoying that feeling, and found himself wanting more. His hand slipped from Daud's jaw to the assassin's belt, his fingers gently teased the fastening until it finally fell free. He pulled Daud's cock from his trousers, it leapt from its hold and slapped the assassin's stomach, Daud chuckled into Martin's mouth. The Overseer curled his fingers around it and Daud's breathing hitched as he _squeezed_.   

His hands were skilled and graceful, once used to reload a pistol in quick processions, pick locks in seconds, and even pull the pin from a grenade on occasion. Now, curved around Daud's girth, he used those skills to tease obscene sounds from the assassin's lips. He was slow at first, taking his time to flick the tip with his thumb, wiping away the clear liquid that collected there. As his pace increased, his eyes strayed to Daud's face.

He had always enjoyed watching Daud come undone. How the assassin closed his eyes and threw his head back, the low moans that escaped his lips, the raw and deep sounds that fuelled Martin's own pleasure, causing the Overseer to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from making a sound. And then the other man  just _lets go_.  

Daud never liked being kissed in this state but Martin did it anyway. He kissed along his jaw, down his exposed neck, and bites along his collarbone and the tops of his shoulders. He takes his time in marking Daud, every bite mark, every bruise, each a small claim that marks him as his. And when Daud gathered his senses, a hand caught Martin's jaw and pulled him up to meet his lips. He kissed him hungrily; as if Martin's lips were air and he couldn't breathe.

The chair beneath them groaned in protest and suddenly it no longer felt secure enough to hold them both. Daud pulled away first, gulping at the air. "We should take this to the bed." He suggested between breaths.

Martin nodded, sliding from Daud's lap. As Daud stood, he let his trousers fall to his ankles, he stepped out of them entirely leaving his pale legs exposed to the cool air of the room.

"I feel overdressed." Martin commented dryly, reaching behind Daud to squeeze his bare ass.

Daud smirked. "I can fix that."

 

The night passed in a heated blur of passion and sweat. Both men had collapsed, pleasantly exhausted, onto the old and worn mattress in the corner of the room. Martin lay tucked against Daud's chest, an arm lazily swung over the assassins abdomen, his leg pressed comfortably between Daud's. It was remarkably pleasant; to listen to another's heart beat, to feel Daud's breath rustle his hair, his warmth against his own skin. It was pleasant in a way that Martin had never really expected: a heat buried deep in his chest, a yearning for Daud's company and not necessarily his body. The Overseer sighed at the realisation of those feelings. Daud's brow furrowed slightly at the sigh; he trailed his fingers over the faint ridges of scar tissue criss-crossing of Martin's back.

"We should do this more often." Martin said, his voice so soft that it sounded more like a breath of air, it was easy and relaxed. The very sound made Daud's chest tighten a fraction.

"Perhaps. Once this is all over." Daud replied stiffly.

"Yes." Martin said numbly.

Daud's hand stilled mid-stroke. He glanced down at Martin curved against him, how content they seemed to be, how utterly _normal_ it felt. And he shuddered. He sat up, easing Martin from him, and dragged a hand through his slightly damp hair. Martin's eyes flicked to his; wide and almost pleading with him.

"I should go." Daud said. There was no hint of an excuse in his words, it was a dismissal.

"I suppose you should." Martin murmured. There was no  peace in his face now; it had hardened into that familiar iron mask, and Daud knew from experience that it would be almost impossible to gauge the man's emotions with that wall between them.

Daud tore his eyes away as he rose from the bed. He paused halfway into his clothes, keeping his eyes trained on the boarded window. Daud thought of how easy it would be to crawl back to the mattress and pull Martin to him again.A part of him wanted to stay, and the sheer realisation made Daud want to blink from the apartment as fast as he could. But, as always, there was something that held him back. Something that led him to meeting with the man more often than he'd admit.

Martin pulled himself up and leaned against the crumbling plaster of the wall, he gathered his knees to his chest as he watched Daud dress. "Be careful." He murmured in that low and honeyed voice of his.

Daud glanced back at him and instantly wished he hadn't. The Overseer's skin was still flushed, his lips wet and pink, and the vulnerable shimmer of his eyes almost made leaving impossible. And that voice... The assassin nodded once, almost robotically, and marched from the apartment. Once he stood out in the open air, with that foul river smell almost suffocating him, Daud realised the weight of Martin's words.

 

* * *

 

Emily had screamed when she saw Corvo fall to his knees. Martin had held her back, as Havelock threw the former Lord Protector's body over his shoulder and marched up to the attic, her little fingers were like claws scratching against his jacket.

"It's alright." He'd told her. It was useless, no words would have comforted her, especially any from his mouth. "He's asleep, he's most likely exhausted from his trip. It's nothing to worry about."

He lied and he lied, and oh how easy it was becoming. The words rolled off his tongue so easily that he barely gave it a second thought. It was better to lie, after all, the truth was much more venomous and deadly than he'd like anyone to know. Lying, it seemed, was his only choice.

 _Restrict the lying tongue..._ The very words were lost on him. He'd stopped reaching for the little leather bound book, or even the strictures themselves, it seemed futile to him now. He was bound to the Void whether he liked it or not.

 

* * *

 

 

"Is that all of them?" Havelock asked, barely glancing up as he wiped his pistol clean.

Martin looked down grimly at the bodies, how they were arranged in a line when they had fallen, gaping holes in their heads leaking red onto the dust of the courtyard. It wasn't all of them, in fact it was only _two_ of the small group who had assisted them in their stay at the pub. Wallace, Pendleton's dear valet, and that miserable maid Lydia.

"Other than the governess - Captain Curnow's niece - and those cowardly natural philosophers, I'd say so." He lied.

His eyes passed over Pendleton, who stood a small distance away with his eyes glazed over and cast out on the river, a bottle clutched desperately in his hand, and Martin considered whether the valet had meant more to him than he cared to admit.

His gaze finally fell on Havelock, who looked back at him with a hard and defiant look in his eyes, unyielding and unflinching. The man was beyond feeling any remorse. Maybe he had, at one point, back when blood was a fresh sensation on his hands and his soul was considerably cleaner. Killing more often than was necessary would do that to a man, make him into a machine, far beyond the chains of human weakness. Havelock was a monster.

Martin didn't mention the red haired girl with the cap, with those sharp eyes and lack of etiquette. He hadn't forgotten her, nor would he ever forget her, he only hoped that she had enough sense to be far away from here as possible. One life wasn't going to redeem him now, no he was in far too deep for that, but it certainly made him feel a little better.

"Good." Havelock said, sliding his pistol back into its holder, although his fingertips lingered on its handle contemplatively.

 _Good,_ Martin thought, as the Admiral's hand fell to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still practicing with *intimate* scenes, so apologies if it seems a little hazy at times.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mild mature content  
> Set after The Light at the End

Daud had never been particularly good at goodbyes. He told himself that if he had said anything to Martin as he left that apartment days ago, the words would have never sounded right, the sentiment would have dried up on the tip of his tongue. He told himself that it was better this way; it was better to leave without saying goodbye. Yet as Daud crouched in the shadows of the meeting room in the lighthouse on Kingsparrow Island, watching as Havelock poured poison into Martin's glass, he wished he'd said something. And the heavy weight of guilt settled on his shoulders as Martin knowingly accepted the glass.

 -

Daud waited patiently, perched on the edge of an old and crooked stool a little way from the bed. It was quiet in the office, besides Martin's gentle breathing, and it was strangely private.

Thomas had helped him carry Martin's unconscious body back from Kingsparrow Island, a task that had proved much more difficult than Daud had anticipated. It had been difficult sneaking 5 of his best men into the rats nest in the first place, yet it seemed a walk in the park when compared to having the former, and briefly appointed, High Overseer draped over his shoulder. He really couldn't have done it if it weren't for Thomas clearing the path and collecting Spiritual Remedies for Daud's quickly decreasing Mana along the way. He'd have to thank Thomas when he had the chance.

Luckily, none of his men had questioned Daud when he returned with Martin cradled to his chest. Not one of them protested when he ordered for his office to be cleared. Perhaps he hadn't been as discreet about his meetings with Martin as he'd previously thought. Or perhaps they'd seen the look of distress on his face he'd tried so hard to hide. Either way, they were alone, and it was likely for it to remain that way for some time.

Martin slept noiselessly. His face was one of serenity, something he never thought he'd describe his face as. Martin had a habit of being a constant enigma. Even on those strangely comforting nights when neither wanted to fuck, Martin would nestle at Daud's side with a blush of honest contentment settled on his features, yet there was always some sort of calculated look in his eyes. Always sharp, always observing, but never relaxing. Not truly.

It wasn't like that now.

His cheeks looked soft and slightly flushed from the cool air of the Flooded District, his usually neat brown hair now ruffled against Daud's pillow, pink lips slightly parted. There was no doubting Martin's beauty.

Daud didn't want to think about what he saw in Martin's eyes back at Kingsparrow Island. That gut-wrenching look of acceptance as Havelock passed him the poisoned glass. His willingness to drink it. The utter hopelessness and defeat that drowned those brilliant blue eyes. It was the look of a man who was ready to die. It was the same look he'd given Daud when he first discovered that Martin was an Overseer, on that dreadful night when Daud had held the gun to Martin's forehead, finger itching over the trigger. And Martin had asked him to do it.

He'd known for a long time that they had been playing a dangerous game. Yet he never quite realised the depth of Martin's involvement with the little Empress. Twice he'd underestimated the young Overseer; he would make sure there would not be a third.

When Martin finally awoke, he let out a low frustrated groan. His eyes snapped open and found Daud immediately, shooting him a glare.

"You saved me." He grunted, turning on his side to face the assassin. 

"You're welcome." Daud raised a brow, leaning back in the chair.

"I'm not thanking you." Martin muttered. "I didn't want to be saved."

"I know." Daud said softly, discarding his steel facade, it would do him no good here. Not now, not with Martin's fragile mind threatening to crumble before him. "I knew that look; the look you had when you accepted that poisoned glass, it was the same look I gave Corvo when he stood above me with his blade pressed to my throat. I understand the longing for it all to be over, to stand up and accept the hand fate had dealt you, I know because I have felt those things too."

Martin snorted, his hand covering his face. "Save me the sob story, Daud, this whole situation is making me feel nauseous."

"If I hadn't been there-"

"Then I would have died, I know." Martin said, his voice hard. His hand slipped back beneath the blanket and he shot the assassin a glare."Did you ever consider that perhaps I wanted to die?"

Daud examined Martin's deep blue eyes for a moment, desperately searching for a hint of regret, a spark of emotion; he found nothing but emptiness. He sighed, dropping his gaze to the wooden floor. "Yes. I was plagued with that idea as I carried you here. Tormented with it as I sat here waiting for you to wake up."

"Why did you do it?" Martin asked.

Daud muttered: "I don't know."

It was silent for a moment. Both men could taste the lie on the tips of their tongues, yet neither mentioned the aching feeling they felt in the pit of their stomachs. Both were too stubborn to admit to their feelings, both still holding out on what little pride they had left. And so the words were left unsaid.

Martin glanced around himself, taking in the sights of what he knew to be Daud's office, trying to figure out what he could about the man beside him through his possessions. The bed was on a maisonette of sorts, surrounded by industrial metal railings, that overlooked a much larger room. The roof was nonexistent, and Martin wondered what happened when it rained.

It was unsurprisingly impersonal; the very few personal possessions the assassin harboured were most likely locked away in that chest at the foot of the bed. Everything else seemed vastly work-related. The posters pasted on the wall were mostly of wanted criminals or influential aristocrats, some were crossed out and others weren't. There were several bookcases filled with history books and biographies from the names on his wall, although one particularly well-read book caught his attention; The Seven Strictures. The corners of Martin's lips curled up at that, he couldn't imagine Daud thumbing through the ideals of the Abbey.

"Admiring my library?" Daud asked, noticing where the Overseer's eyes were focussed.

"Yeah, I wasn't aware that you could read." Martin teased. His blue eyes flicked from the stacks of books to his rough-faced assassin, who watched wearily from a stool some distance away. Daud rolled his eyes at his remark, although his lips bore signs of a smile. Martin's eyes grazed over the worn appearance of the older man; noting how he'd ditched his red coat, which was draped over the railing behind him carelessly, and only wore a greying shirt stained with the faded blood of a long-forgotten target. He was unshaven and the skin under his eyes had darkened with telltale signs of lack of sleep; Martin wondered how long he'd been sleeping for and for how long Daud had been watching over him. "I see you've read the strictures."

"Mhmm." Daud hummed. "Exclusively for research purposes though, I assure you. I wanted to get to know the rules I was so intent on encouraging you to break."

Martin's cheeks flushed pink, picturing the many times Daud had tried coaxing him into breaking the sixth, and the one time that he did.

There had been a time when their meetings had been harder, punishingly so, when Daud would dominate Martin. And the Overseer would be pushed to the very brink of pain and pleasure. To the brink of heresy. There had been times when Martin had wanted to scream at Daud, curse him in every way he knew how, but had obeyed. His heart would pound, his body tremble with pleasure and restraint. *

Martin smiled shyly at Daud. "You really knew how to punish me."

Daud gave him a wry smile. His mind was racing with the many delicious ways he could manipulate Martin's sleek body, how he could make him squeal and scream, but that was for another day. Today was the day for darker things.

"What happened to you, Martin?" His voice was soft, like a purr of a cat nestling against its owners neck, it was low and comforting and sent a tingling warmth through Martin's veins. For a moment, Martin's blue eyes were liquid. And then they hardened, as he composed himself, his mask settling back into place.

"Me? I've been quite consistent in my dishonesty and quest for personal gain. Perhaps you should consider that it's not _me_ who has changed." Martin replied with that famous sharp tongue of his. It was meant to be an accusation, and Daud certainly felt the sting of it, yet he brushed it off with a small smile.

"Perhaps you're right." He murmured. "But in times such as these, change is necessary. Either change or die, and that's the hard and bitter truth of it."

Martin slumped back against the bed with a small groan escaping his lips, he stared long and hard at the glimpses of sky visible through the crumbling roof, and he listened to the quiet creaking of the aging wood. His head still throbbed, an irritating ache buried somewhere behind his eyes, he rubbed at his face as if to rid himself of the tiresome pain. "By the Void, what did you do to me?"

"I switched the poison with the contents of a sleep dart. The effect will wear off eventually, but you may feel a little groggy for a few days." Daud answered simply.

"I never thought of you as an alchemist, Daud." Martin muttered.

"I'm not;  but my men do have uses beyond killing." He stood, peeling the glove from his right hand. He gently pressed it to Martin's forehead, he was still burning up, which didn't particularly surprise him.

The Whaler designated to concocting all manners of helpful poisons was often making errors in terms of quantities; one too many Kingsparrow feathers and a target intended to be kept alive could enter a deep coma, or too few led to a sluggish but angry man on their hands. It wasn't the first time a simple dart had left traces of unpleasant side-effects, and it certainly wasn't going to be the last.

"How are you feeling?"

"Guilty. So horrifically, painstakingly, guilty." Martin mumbled into his hands. Daud couldn't see his eyes, but the way Martin kept rubbing at them he guessed the man may have been tearing up a little. "I never thought things would end this way."

"What happened on that island?" Daud asked, sitting beside Martin on the bed, his hand resting on the Overseer's shoulder.

"In a way, everything happened." Martin lowered his hands, reddened eyes looked everywhere except at Daud. "We all knew that there was no way out of it. Pendleton kept going on and on about Corvo still being alive and Havelock would have none of it. Havelock seemed set on congratulating us all on our work, commemorating our success at getting as far as we did. But it was bullshit; the lot of it. There had been this look in his eyes and he'd known that Pendleton was right. He knew that Corvo was coming for us, for what we did, and he had every right. For we were just as bad as those before us, we blackmailed and ordered deaths so often it became a habit, we turned to everything we'd been against. It was a hard thing; holding the keys to the empire in your hand, it weighs heavily on a man's mind. We were cursed men, and we deserved nothing more than death. And when Havelock offered a toast to the new Empire, I heard the bitterness of his voice as clear as I saw the vial of poison in his sleeve, and I accepted. Death extended his hand to me and I wholly intended to grasp it." Martin paused, lacing his fingers through Daud's. "Only, looking back I realise that it wasn't Death's hand, it was yours."

They both stared down at their entwined hands, Martin's words hanging heavily in the air between them. It was silent for a long time, the sort of silence that rang loudly in Daud's ears, it was the kind of silence he usually liked to avoid.

"You never deserved to die. Not during that Overseers siege on my base years before*, and not there in that lighthouse." He began, his voice low and gentle. It was a tone Martin had never heard him adopt, and he wasn't sure whether he was comfortable with this soft side of him.

"Daud-" Martin tried to cut him off, but Daud shook his head, those dark eyes pleading to be allowed to continue.

"Sometimes we do what we think is best, whether that decision is good or evil, it's just what has to be done for the good of the world." Daud finished, his grip tightening on Martin's pale hand.

Martin searched Daud's eyes for a long time, he wasn't sure what it was he was searching for, perhaps a glint of dishonesty or disgust, but he found nothing but the hollow gaze of a man who had felt the nauseating sting of redemption himself. And then, with a slight sigh, Martin adjusted his position on the bed and raised the blanket that had been covering him. The blanket was an old and tattered thing, and rather disappointingly didn't hold Daud's musky scent but reeked of damp and mildew. An invitation.

Daud's lips curved into a small, surprised, smile as he kicked off his boots and lay down beside him. The blanket fell back into place and their bodies fitted snugly together, Martin found himself curling into Daud, seeking warmth and something else that he'd prefer not to name. Daud's arms wrapped around him and Martin rested his head on the assassin's chest.

"Which of your men did you steal the blanket from?" Martin asked innocently, his fingers finding a loose button on Daud's shirt and toyed with it absentmindedly.

"Rinaldo. His attempt at cooking the other night was so shameful that he's been banned from the kitchen indefinitely, I didn't think he deserved a blanket after that." Daud said dryly, inspecting the flea-bitten blanket with disdain.

Martin chuckled softly. "Would it be fair to say that he's being judged unreasonably?"

"No, it wouldn't be."

Martin laughed again and this time Daud felt the corners of his own lips tug upwards, although those Serkonan blood sausages were certainly _not_ a laughing matter.

"I'd like to meet your men. It would be nice to see the faces behind those whaling masks for once. And it would make sense for me to know them, especially if I'm to stay here." The Overseer murmured softly.

Daud's eyebrows twitched in surprise at Martin's words. "Stay here?"

"If you'll have me."

The assassin ran his bare hand through Martin's dark hair, and he thought of how he wanted to get used to the weight of Martin against his chest, to see those clever blue eyes every day. He thought of these things and wondered whether there may be a chance of finding happiness with Martin at his side. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the Overseer's forehead. "Of course you can stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * References to [patho's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho) [two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/649275?view_adult=true) [fics](thunderjelly-some-dumb-angst-art-of-daud-and) because I adore these works and have accepted them as canon for the sake of this fic.


	4. Chapter 4

Days passed and, slowly, the effects of the dodgy sleep dart wore off. Martin still felt weaker than usual, and suffered with terrible headaches, but he had the strength to walk and to eat the meals that appeared without explanation at his bedside. He may have been feeling better, but there was still very little to do but lounge on Daud's bed and listen to the gentle scratching of the assassin's pen against paper, and absently he began flicking through an old and tattered book whilst Daud worked.

They were developing a routine, and neither really knew how they felt about that. In the morning, or whenever it was that they became conscious, they'd take their time in getting up. Daud was always the first one to get dressed and Martin prided himself in making that task extremely difficult by pressing soft kisses down the assassin's spine as the other man attempted to pull on his trousers. Sometimes Daud would swat him away, but more often than not he'd abandon the useless garment and grip hold of the Overseer and hold him against the mattress and kiss him in the most obscene places. For the rest of the day, Daud would fill out paperwork and write letters to his informants and contacts whilst Martin read every book in the assassin's small collection. These long periods of time were occasionally broken up by a card game or this odd Serkonan game Daud had taught him that involved a wooden cup and roughly carved dice.

It was all very _pleasant_ , which was exactly what escaping death shouldn't feel like, but it was. Martin was enjoying his time with Daud, he enjoyed tempting him from his work with playful touches, and interrupting Daud whilst he recorded an audiolog. He liked falling asleep with his skin still flushed and sweating, with Daud's arm wrapped around him, and their bodies curved together. Martin liked sharing Daud's bed and that borrowed blanket that always seemed to be forgotten by morning.

He had asked Daud to return the blanket to its rightful owner, but Daud had outright refused, mumbling something about the disaster of the boy's culinary skills and how he deserved much more than a mere cold. Martin didn't feel right about keeping the blanket any longer, especially as he had no need for it. His nights were warm with Daud sleeping at his side and he often found it was simply getting in the way as they both tossed and turned throughout the night.

One morning, once he was fully awake, he rose from the bed and collected the blanket from the floor, where it lay in a heap from Daud kicking it off with irritation at some point during the night. He folded it neatly and ignored the looks Daud was giving him.

"What are you doing?" The assassin asked, sitting up on the bed, curiosity gleaming in those dark eyes of his.

"Returning this." Martin said simply, as if it were obvious.

"You don't even know who it belongs to." Daud said, his brow arched with amusement.

"Rinaldo, wasn't it?" Martin asked, and the assassin nodded in reply. "Well then, I'll go and find him." He turned and left Daud, still on the bed with a slight smile on his face.

Martin had no idea where to even begin looking. He had only been there for a few days, most of which he'd spent dozing on Daud's bed, and so he had no idea of the layout of the base or where he'd be most likely to find the Whaler.

Martin _had_ been to Daud's base before, but only once, and it hadn't been one of his most favourable memories. Back then, he had been stupid enough to believe that he didn't need to tell Daud that he was an Overseer, he had thought that it was best to keep business and pleasure as separate as possible. And it had worked; until the time came when his superior had gained new information regarding the location of the troublesome band of mercenaries rumoured to be in league with the Outsider. The same band of assassins that Daud commanded. The siege hadn't been successful, a lot of Martin's brothers were killed or captured, and he had known that the attempt would fail. He had followed his orders, to confront the assassins, but had dodged any actual attempt to _kill_ any of them. He had kept to the flooded alleys and crumbling buildings surrounding the old Commerce Building and only stepped on to the makeshift walkways when necessary. Not that his meticulous precaution went acknowledged, one of the Whalers had managed to capture Martin and he had very nearly been executed by Daud himself. He would have died if his mask hadn't shattered...

Needless to say, he hadn't exactly made notes on the layout of the base the first time around.

He found himself in a small room, only a turn away from Daud's office, occupied by a big and precarious bookcase and several old desks. At the far end of the room was a large and open window, which Martin headed towards in hopes of finding a walkway or something of the likes. Instead he was faced with a vent and a steep drop into a small courtyard.

Outsider's eyes, had these men completely forgotten about normal human abilities, or did they just entirely rely on the works of the Outsider to simply travel from one place to the other? Frustrated, Martin turned back to find another way, when he noticed Daud leaning against the old bookcase casually.

"How's your search for Rinaldo going?" Daud asked, his face was an emotionless mask, yet his eyes sparkled with humour.

"Very funny." Martin snapped. "Is there a damned staircase or ladder in this place?"

Daud shook his head. "The floods destroyed all the staircases in this building, unfortunately. I could just gift you some of my powers from the Outsid-"

"No. I may no longer be an Overseer but I'm still not exactly _comfortable_ with the works of the Outsider. I want no affiliation with it, at all." Martin said dismissively, his gaze on Daud hardening.

The assassin shrugged. "Fine. Then I guess you won't be able to return the stinking blanket to that fool Rinaldo. I don't see why it's so important for you to do so anyway."

"It's important because it's a peace offering." Martin insisted. "If I'm to stay here than I'd like for your men to at least bear being in the same room as me. I know that being an Overseer means that they don't trust me bu-"

"You think that they don't come in here because of _you_?" Daud scoffed, a mix of disbelief and honest surprise flashing across his features.

"Well.. why else would we have been left alone up here for _days_?" Martin said uncertainly.

"Because when I returned from Kingsparrow Island with an unconscious Overseer in my arms and a look that spelled death, they decided it was best to leave us alone. Because when Thomas asked if I needed any help I screamed a whole manner of obscenities at him and threw several objects in his direction. Trust me, this is down to me, not you." Daud answered, giving him the eeriest look of absolute seriousness and truthfulness, which was alarmingly refreshing for a man such as Daud.

"I see." Martin said quietly. "And you trust your men to behave without leadership?"

Daud's face fell. "I'll be right back."

He vanished within an instant and Martin couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he headed back towards Daud's office. He'd only been on his feet for a matter of minutes and his head was already throbbing with a dull ache; he wondered at the ability of that Whaler turned alchemist, and whether it was a long lasting side effect. Once back inside the room he was beginning to see as home, he decided to scan Daud's bookcases for a tome or two to read, and then found himself with the dilemma of being in a room with no chairs. Daud must really be fan of standing; the very idea made Martin's head hurt a little bit more.

He settled on the edge of a desk, which was littered with various paper work and blueprints of houses and buildings, with a copy of the Litany on the White Cliff. Martin had read it many times before, the first being when he'd first joined the Abbey, and as a new-recruit he'd been expected to commit the entire book to memory. He chuckled lightly at the memory.

A man doesn't volunteer to join the Abbey very often. Most Overseers were chosen as children, ripped from their beds and taken from their parents, almost forced into the strictures; but not Martin. It had been the reason why he came to Gristol all those years ago. He'd been a desperate young man seeking redemption, his unfulfilled promise to his mother ringing loudly in his head, and he had little choice. Either he kept running or hide himself behind the mask the Abbey gave him. But at least, in a way, he had kept to his word.

 

* * *

 

 

Daud returned hours later; much later than Martin had anticipated.

The sun had long dipped below the crumbling remains of buildings, the sky that was once a fount of colour and light and fallen to smothering ash. Darkness had devoured the small and ruined corner of the city. Martin had stood - or _balanced_ would be more fitting - on the balcony made from strips of corrugated metal and half-rotted wood and watched as the world around him disappeared into an ocean of nothingness. He wasn't certain of the exact moment when he realised that he was no longer alone. Daud simply wasn't there one moment, and was the next.

They stood, side by side, eyes fixated on nothing in particular; a smudge of grey among a haze of such smudges. There was no wind, the very breath of Dunwall had ceased, and Martin wondered whether it had always been the same. Or maybe his senses had been muffled by the strictures to notice it before. The scent of death, decay, and doom was hot and thick in the air and it burned a path down his throat as he breathed.

There was no need to speak. The night had told him all he needed to know.

He knew that out there, _somewhere_ , was a scared little Empress with a raven at her shoulder. Together, they may be carefully stitching the Empire back into one coherent piece, but Martin knew how the Lord Protector operated; the raven would never leave a loose thread unattended.

"Empress Emily Kaldwin the First was crowned two days ago." Daud said at last. Martin flinched at his words, his grip tightening on the edge of the corrugated steel of the balcony, knuckles turning white. When Martin didn't respond, Daud continued: "Corvo was pardoned for his alleged crimes and is now known as the hero who saved the Empress, and the new Empress declared the former Lord Protector as her biological father."

Martin scoffed. "As if we didn't know already."

Daud's lips may have curved up into a smile; Martin didn't look to find out. Any light from the small attempt at humour diminished almost immediately. The assassin sighed gently before speaking again. "They're looking for you."

"I know."

He could have spent countless hours stood staring into the Void, contemplating his imminent death, his mind stringing together regret after regret in an endless clip show of things he longed to forget, he could have knelt on the dirt covered floor and recited the strictures he'd been clinging on to for far too long. But with his time reduced to a matter of days; it felt wrong to waste a single second on futile practices. Instead, he did what he longed to do.

He gripped Daud's large gloved hands and lead him back inside. In the darkness, they stripped each other bare and kissed at soft skin and marbled scars until their lips were swollen and their bodies slick. It was slow and gentle, and it burned like the last candle placed at a shrine, its flame wavering but unyielding against the shadows. And Martin realised that the moment they shared in that small and stained bed, under the threat of discovery and punishment, beneath the gaze of the stars, was their first night of romance. And he let that thought rock him gently to sleep as he curled against Daud's warm chest.

* * *

 

The Void hadn't changed in the slightest.

Daud had become aware of the nauseating feeling of abrupt weightlessness, the cool tingle creeping its way through his body, the overwhelming scent of ozone and sea foam, before he had opened his eyes. And when he did; he was met with the otherworldly blue hue and distorted gravity of the Void.

He wandered for a while, blinking absentmindedly across seemingly random paths and cracked segments of streets, all too aware of the obscene feeling of being watched. He was beginning to wish that he'd had the foresight to pull on some trousers before giving into sleep, just in case the observing entity decided to pluck him from his bed and throw him to this odd realm, when he found himself back inside his office.

Except, it wasn't his office.

Only one wall remained; the one plastered with posters except they'd all been replaced with the deceased Empress's image. His desk was upturned, plans and documents were suspended in mid-air, and upon inspection he found that each piece was actually blank. He would have noted every notch in the wood of the floorboards, counted the number of crosses that had been painted over the Empress's fair features, if it meant prolonging the moment before his attentions turned to the main spectacle of the scene.

Blood. Splattered across the floor, drops still clinging to the air, staining Martin's pale skin and dribbling from the gash across his neck. He was on his knees, head forced back and blue eyes wide with horror, and Corvo's blade pressed to his throat.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Daud?" The Outsider had appeared a little way from the scene, floating just above an old desk, his black eyes almost twinkling as he spoke.  "I wonder, do you really understand the consequences of your actions? Teague Martin was meant to die, either by his own hand or Admiral Havelock's, and yet you intervened and prevented his death. To think that you, the Knife of Dunwall, killer of an Empress, would save a life you had no right to interfere with. It truly is _fascinating_."

Daud barely grunted at the appearance of the young form of the Outsider. He glanced back at Martin's frozen body in the centre of his office, and his brow creased and his expression softened. Martin, his sharp-tongued Overseer, with his heart heavy with guilt and his head filled with strictures and his need to be touched, had been destined to the Void. The very thought chilled him to the bone. "So you think Corvo will kill him?"

"This isn't my projection, Daud, this is yours. _You_ think that Corvo will kill him. But the real question is whether you will dare to cross blades with the man who spared your life in order to protect Teague Martin, or if you'll stand back and let justice take its own course. Or maybe you'll find another way."

"Another way?"

The Outsider said nothing. He angled his head to the left, those black eyes watching Daud wonderingly. And then he disappeared, dispersing into wisps of black smoke, and Daud swore he'd seen a slight smile on the lips of the whale-god.

* * *

 

 

Morning came and went without detection. As the afternoon sun rose high in the sky above them, Martin finally stirred in Daud' arms. Daud was already awake, perhaps he had been for a long time, and was staring at the deteriorating ceiling. His expression was hard, almost a scowl. Martin's brow furrowed and worry crept into the pit of his stomach.

"Daud..?" Martin said softly.

"The Outsider has become interested in our actions once more." Daud replied coolly, his eyes never faltering from a rusting beam far above them.

Martin's whole body went cold and his skin writhed. To think that the impartial entity had spoken to Daud whilst Martin rested in his arms... His long forgotten nausea came flooding back to him and he had the strangest desire to dig through his discarded clothing for that small and tattered book. "Our?"

The assassin nodded slowly, almost reluctantly. "He's interested to see whether we surrender, fight or... flee."

The Overseer said nothing. His arms wound around Daud a little tighter and his heart hammered against his chest, but no words formed on his tongue.

After a moment, Daud said: "I know a woman with a boat. She's already done me a huge favour in recent times, but I'm sure I can barter for our passage to Serkonos. I have a few contacts over there still, and I'm certain that we could find a way survive and a place to call our own. As long as you're safe from Corvo's blade, I'll take you anywhere."

Martin wanted to be repulsed by the idea, but it was oddly warming. The thought of the two of them, dressed in bright and garish colours, the heat of the endless southern sun beating down on his pale skin, the long slopes of white sand and the gentle lapping of the sea. It seemed idyllic, perfect, dreamlike. "And what about your men? The Whalers?"

"I don't feel as if I have the authority to call them my men anymore. If there were any who wished to go with us, I wouldn't object, but I wouldn't be surprised if there were any so willing."

"You'd leave all of this behind?" Martin asked. His blue eyes searched the older man's face, a gaze that Daud may have once called sharp and calculating, now it was dull and overwhelmed with fear.

Daud looked away. "There's nothing left for me here."

They fell silent for a while. Martin imagined feeling the salty winds of the sea whipping through his hair and the lingering shadow of Dunwall and death disappearing beyond the horizon, where they'd leave the shadows and all the dark dealings they'd taken part in and step into the warmth of the sun, hand in hand. They could leave all thoughts of dead Empresses and living ones behind.

"It's decided then. We'll go to Serkonos." Martin whispered as he closed his eyes, slipping into brightly coloured dreams of the southern Isles.

They never left for Serkonos.

* * *

 

 

It took Corvo a further two days to find them. And it wasn't as if he took them by surprise; they always knew he would come.

The day had passed calmly, but then they always do. Martin and been going over plans for an assassination with Daud, double checking pathways and vantage points for the demise of some greedy noblemen, a small mission Thomas and a few others (although Martin never really caught their names) had insisted on carrying out. _Leave no loose ends_ , they'd said, and the words hadn't left Martin's mind since.

The base had been a hub of activity since Daud had spoken to the Whalers days before. Boys in whaling masks and ashen blue coats came in and out of the office without thought, some ambling and others seeking guidance from their leader. It was nice, Martin thought, to see the cavernous room used as it was intended to be, and to hear voices echo through the still air that belonged to people other than Daud and himself.

Above all, it was nice to see Daud act as a leader. And it was oddly entertaining, the frown that he wore when speaking to his men was forced, and Martin noticed how the corners of his mouth twitched and how his eyes flared when something amused him or caught him off-guard, how the mask _almost_ slips. And the way he spoke to them with that stern and levelled voice weighted with authority and years of experience; it made Martin smile.

Martin had spoken to a few of them himself. One particularly brave Whaler had had the nerve to ask whether Martin still believed in the Strictures, and he hadn't known how to answer. A part of him had wanted to say _yes_ , but another part of him (a new part of him, something he hadn't even noticed until he'd awoken on Daud's bed a week previous, after his close encounter with death) whispered its doubts and insecurities. Martin had given the Whaler a forced smile and said: "Faith is a mysterious thing." and had left it at that.

The truth was; Martin quickly became fond of being a part of the small band of mercenaries that Daud had carved together. If he'd had more time (because even he is not oblivious to the silent ticking of a clock, counting down his remaining time, until there were merely hours remaining) he would have considered getting to know each Whaler and learn to accept the mark that connected them all. But there was no time.

They were alone again. Martin wasn't entirely sure when it had happened but each Whaler had left the room, without a word to their leader or himself, leaving the air absent of chatter and void of warmth. Looking back, Martin should have been suspicious, he should have questioned Daud and pushed at the matter.

"It's too quiet in here." Martin said, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"So it is." Daud had replied dismissively, his eyes sweeping through some document, his pen hovering above the page in contemplation.

Martin ceased his pacing around the room, stopping directly in front of the desk Daud was leaning over. The candles - which he'd asked a few of the Whalers to collect, as he'd developed a dislike of the dark - flickered ominously and had captured the assassin's concentrated features in a golden light. The warm colours made his scarred skin seem softer and somewhat more youthful, illuminating those dark brown eyes.

"I don't like it." Martin told him.

It seemed to have caught the assassin's attention. His eyes flicked up to meet the Overseer's gaze and softened slightly, all too knowing of what Martin meant. "You don't think-"

"Why else?"

Daud's jaw tightened. His fingers released the pen, which clattered loudly against the grain of the desk, and reached for his blade. Martin's hand stopped him, pale fingers entwining with Daud's gloved ones. The assassin looked at him curiously, if not with a little concern. "You don't want to fight?"

"Not yet." Martin shook his head slowly. He dropped his gaze to their hands, as his fingers teased Daud's glove off to expose the hardened and tanned skin. "We may still have a moment to ourselves."

Daud may have opened his mouth to protest, but he didn't make a sound, and Martin didn't look up. Instead, he rose Daud's hand to his lips, ignoring the fact that his own hands were shaking and his heart was _racing_. He tried to push all thoughts of ravens and swords and blood from his mind and just focus on the only thing that mattered. His skin tasted faintly of salt and was bitter with the lingering smoke of a cigarette. 

"I don't understand you, Teague Martin." Daud breathed, his eyes dark as he drank in the sight of the man before him. Quietly, he joined the Overseer on the other side of the desk. He reached up a hand and touched Martin's cheek, the leather of his gloves ghosting over his pale skin and sharp stubble, and Martin sighed and pushed into his palm.

He met the older man's lips tentatively, his eyes closing as he submitted to his touch. Daud's hands were slow as he framed Martin's face, his thumbs running across his jaw and over his cheekbones, and their mouths were slower, deeper, almost timid. For a moment, they forgot about the raven and the impending darkness. Martin helped the assassin out of his jacket, which he tossed over his shoulder as if the garment offended him, and Daud's fingers were quick and skilled as he unbuttoned Martin's shirt.

He wondered what life would have been like, or will be like, without Martin. It would have been much less stressful, that was for sure, but somehow the idea of not being able to see those pale blue eyes or kiss those soft pink lips brought a frown to his lips and an ache in his chest. Martin may have been a pain, a thorn in his side, with all the problems that came with him, but Daud wouldn't give up a single moment of their time together for any amount of coin. An inconvenience or not, there was something about him, something intoxicating that Daud just couldn't get enough of.

He lifted the other man slightly, hands running over lean muscle and searing hot flesh, placing him on the edge of the desk and spread his legs wide so he could press his hips between them. Martin lips curved into a smirk, and Daud kissed at the corner of his mouth.

Shouting came from the walkways just beyond the doors and Martin's breathing hitched and his hands gripped on to the assassin a little tighter. His smile faltered and it felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. "We haven't any time." He whispered breathlessly.

Daud's thumb passed over the Overseer's bottom lip, brown eyes low and dark, and he pressed one last kiss to Martin's lips.

The door banged open noisily, letting in a gust of wind that extinguished the candles on the desk, the twirls of smoke stretching towards the non-existent roof. The room plummeted into darkness, save for the silver light of the moon above them. Death strode into the room with slow, calloused steps, the mark on his hand glowing a fount of swirling colours. Martin was frozen to the spot, eyes wide and lips parted, as he watched Corvo approach.

Daud was quick to act. He pulled Martin to his feet close behind him, his left hand gripping on to the Overseer's arm, whilst he unsheathed his blade. His stance transformed into an almost animalistic pose, curled defensively in front of Martin, with his blade sharp and pointing at Corvo, and his mark burning white hot against his tanned skin. All rigid muscle and pure determination. If circumstances were different, Martin would have found this look on Daud wildly alluring.

Corvo's lips curled into a wry smile. "Daud, I had no idea you were so _well acquainted_ with the former High Overseer."

His dark, almost black, eyes scanned them both quizzically. Martin suddenly become all too aware of his unbuttoned shirt and exposed chest, and he squirmed uncomfortably under the Lord Protector's gaze. Daud's chin tilted upward defiantly, seeming unfazed by Corvo's scrutiny. "Don't pretend to know me, bodyguard." Daud growled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his sword tighter. "You know my name and my blade, but you don't know me."

"No, I suppose I don't." Corvo mused, taking another step toward them. "But do you know the man you're protecting? Do you know what he's done?"

"I'm not in any position to judge anyone's morals." Daud replied curtly.

The laugh that escaped the Lord Protector's lips was callous and bitter, and Martin couldn't help but wonder whether he had finally lost his mind. Not that anyone could blame the poor guy, he had fought bloody tooth and nail for his own morality, yet it wasn't as if he were the only one who had suffered. Dunwall was bursting at the seams with men and women who all held similar tales of injustice; Corvo was one of many. "I'd have to agree with you there. I'll only warn you once: step away from Teague Martin. I've spared your life once already, I will be sure not to make the same mistake this time."

Daud's blade beckoned Corvo forward, its polished surface illuminated by a strand of moonlight through the crumbling roof. "Never."

Corvo's sword arced high above his head, preparing to swoop down and slash at Daud, to remove the barrier that separated him from reaching Martin with brutal force. Daud angled his own blade in preparation to block the encounter, and presumably to counter it with a jerk of his sword and a carefully positioned foot. Martin could imagine the fight that would take place, all too fast for his eyes to fully register, glimpses of swords colliding and blood being shed, _whooshes_ of black magic and periods of darkness and breaks of bright light. The fight only two men could fight. Complete equals duelling and Martin had no idea who would win.

Corvo would have the upper hand; he'd defeated Daud before and he'd made it perfectly clear that he would not be as merciful as he had once been. Even if Daud _did_ win, they'd have a dead Lord Protector on their hands and the wrath of an orphaned Empress to deal with, both of which they really could do without. It became perfectly clear within those precious few seconds before oblivion what Martin had to do.

"Stop!" His voice was loud and stronger than he could have hoped for. He was concrete, just at the point when it mattered most. And it seemed to have the desired effect; Corvo's blade wavered, and Daud's stance softened. Martin wrenched his arm from Daud's vice-like grip and forced himself between the pair. He looked to Daud briefly, seeing the hard steel of his gaze lessen as confusion blossomed. "You can't do this. Not for me. I don't deserve it - I won't allow it."

"Martin-" Daud growled, almost an echo of the displays of dominance he'd played during their nights together, but the nostalgia was lost on Martin. It was time for Martin to make his own choices.

He turned to Corvo, who had already unsheathed his blade, and looked into the dark brown eyes he'd always avoided. "Whatever punishment her Majesty has ordered, I accept it. Do your worst."

There was a trace of amusement on the corners of Corvo's lips. "I'm not here to perform an execution. After the guards only found two bodies up in that lighthouse, her Majesty has been requesting for you to be found. She wants you to be judged fairly for your crimes and your fate will be decided by the royal court. All that the crown asks is for justice. I'm here to escort you to Coldridge to await your trial." The Lord Protector held up a pair of handcuffs that he pulled from his coat.

"And what if I refuse?" Martin asked.

"Then I'm afraid I will have to take you by force. It really would be much easier for all of us if you come peacefully." Corvo replied, his fingertips stroking the handle of his sword in warning.

"What about Daud? If I submit and go to Coldridge, what happens to him?" Martin's hand reached for the assassin behind him, gripping his marked hand tightly in his own and jerking him forward to stand at his side. Daud eyed Corvo suspiciously as his fingers entwined with Martin's, calculating a million possibilities silently.

"The Empress has yet to reach a decision."

"You're not going to Coldridge, Martin. Those bastards will have you executed at the first chance they get. You're a traitor, you know what they do to traitors, I've seen it with my own eyes." Daud hissed.

Martin had glanced up at Daud, and then found himself unable to look away. The assassin held his gaze for a long moment, deciphering the Overseer's motive and pleading with him all at once. And then Daud realised, Martin had never intended to fight Corvo, nor would he have fled. It had been his plan all along. There was that hollowness to Martin's gaze, as quiet acceptance, so achingly similar to the look he'd had in the lighthouse.

And then Martin looked away. He offered his wrists to Corvo, and the Lord Protector spun the Overseer around and cuffed his hands behind his back. "Good choice." Corvo said dryly.

With one hand clasped around the handcuffs and the other gripping the handle of his blade, Corvo guided Martin out of the doors and on to the small balcony. The battle, if it could even be called as such, had ceased. The Whalers and the City Watch stopped, swords still held in mid-stride, and those in the vicinity looked up at the Lord Protector and his captive. Daud, who had followed them out quietly, watched as his men held their fists to their chests and bowed their heads in respect. One by one they disappeared, leaving wisps of black smoke in their wake. It was the same gesture they gave him at the end of a briefing or before an assignment, it was their way of saying farewell.

For Daud, there were no grand goodbyes. Corvo gripped Martin tighter as his mark shimmered, preparing a transversal. Teague glanced back over his shoulder at the old assassin in the doorway and gave him a shaky and terrified smile, but there was a steadiness to his blue eyes that seemed so hauntingly _right_ , as if there never really was any other end but this one.

And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached the end of my pre-written chapters for this fic, so it will take longer for the next (and final) chapter to be posted.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the events of Dishonored.

Martin tilted his head slightly, squinting past the bright lights shining down on him, as he attempted to see past the ominous circle of darkness surrounding him. It was impossible to tell exactly _how many_ people were watching him, scrutinising him, but he guessed there to be at least twenty. At the very least. There was the odd impatient tapping of a foot to his left, a rustling of paper to his right, a muffled cough. He was acutely aware of everything going on around him, as his sight had been limited to the small circle surrounding his bindings, he honed in on his other senses. Which was getting quite difficult. His head was aching and he felt almost lightheaded. Did they really need to have the bulbs _that_ bright?

"Teague Martin stands accused of the solicitation of the attempted murders of Thaddeus Campbell, Custis and Morgan Pendleton, Waverly Boyle, and Hiram Burrows; the solicitation of the kidnapping of Anton Sokolov; the attempted murder of Corvo Attano; three counts of the bribery of notable figures within the Abbey of the Everyman; two counts of extortion; perjury for lying under the oath of the Abbey of the Everyman; and escaping from the custody of the Abbey of the Everyman."A shrill and wobbling voice listed his crimes, his tone was practiced and seemed to be reading from a piece of paper.

It was quiet, the only noise being the old man's voice bouncing against the marble floors and echoing throughout the large and cavernous room. It was hard to tune him out, which he supposed was intentional, and so Martin listened to the faceless voice and fought the urge to scoff at the damned list.

"Is there any evidence to support these claims?" Another voice asked, younger, softer, seemingly irritated. A woman, he thought, although it was hard to tell. It was vaguely familiar and he spent a short while trying to put a face to that voice, to no avail.

"Yes. Corvo Attano has given a witness report, which can be found on page 14, as well as the report given by Overseer Barton on page 12. Letters have also been recovered, sent and received by the accused, detailing various briberies and rewards if they were to recommend the accused for the position of High Overseer." The voice replied, followed by an encore of paper being turned over a sifted through. He wondered how many pages there were.  

Martin's knees were beginning to ache, kneeling in one position for so long wasn't a particularly good idea. He attempted to shift his position yet his chains were too short to permit any radical difference. Irritated, he pulled against the chains sharply and jerked his hands around a little, the chains clattered loudly and the noise echoed around the room. One of the men leading the session cleared his throat and Martin stopped moving immediately and looked up in the direction of the source.

"Sorry." He murmured quietly, settling uncomfortably back into his previous position.

The shrill voice continued to report on the contents of some of the letters, written by Martin's hand. Martin couldn't help but roll his eyes as the man mispronounced some of the names mentioned, he began to seriously doubt the intellect of the man speaking and wondered whether they were letting anyone well enough to speak to do so during his trial.

"There were also a number of correspondence with Daud, the man who allegedly assassinated Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, and these letters mostly describe the attempted murder of Corvo Attano, the Lord Protector, and his capture by Daud and his men. It's unclear how the correspondence continues as a large number of the letters were not found and those that were found had been tampered with."

Interesting, Martin thought. It seemed as if Daud had destroyed the letters that were not meant for anyone else's eyes, and he was grateful for that. He already had enough claims against him, he didn't need his affiliations with Daud to top that list. He wondered what had become of him, whether the assassin was going through a similar process to himself or whether he was still in the old Commerce Building with a cigarette pressed between his lips. Or maybe he had left for Serkonos after all.

He tuned out for a long time, not taking any interest in the details of the trial. It didn't really matter what evidence they'd found or whatever it was that they thought of him, he only cared about the verdict, and he was almost certain that they wouldn't reach a decision today.

It was all relatively easy on his part, he rarely spoke, only when directly asked to. That was one thing that irked him about the whole trial, there was no opportunity for him to speak for himself, to state his reasoning behind his actions. Dunwall was not a city of justice, its men of the court had no interest in reasoning or the greater good, it was all about appearances and taking the course of action that will make those in power even more powerful. It was a harsh law system and it did no favours for its citizens, the only benefits it reaped were for those of the elite. Not that Martin thought he was being unfairly judged, he deserved nothing more than death for all he'd done, it just seemed somewhat counterproductive. Sloppy. He would tell them everything (well, almost everything, there were something's that were better left unsaid) that they needed to know if it meant speeding the whole affair up.

It was one thing to sentence a man to death, but forcing a man to wait with death and uncertainty looming above him was a whole other league. At the end of the 'gathering', as they called it, he was escorted back to his cell in Coldridge prison. He was told that the conclusion of the gathering would be revealed after an undeterminable length of time.

He wished he'd taken that poison.

\----

 

He had misplaced his book of strictures.

He hadn't noticed for a long time, far too long. One morning he'd jolted awake, drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably, and his pale fingers had reached out to grasp the book's cracked binding but found nothing. The blind panic that washed through his body was comparable to being dunked into a bath of ice cold water, every nerve tingled and his skin twitched, his breathing hitched. He searched his small cell with something akin to rabid desperation, and when he found nothing he sat very still on the floor, eyes pinched closed and trembling hands clenched into fists.

Never had he felt more alone.

Never had he felt colder.

\---

 

He dreamt of purple and blue, the distant hues of the sea, of waves crashing over his head and pulling him under. He was drowning, being pulled down to the darkest depths, where he was imprisoned to watch the light dance on the surface of the waves, just out of reach.

Each morning he woke with his prison garb damp and clinging to his lean frame, his lung sore and desperate for breath. The lingering smell of the ocean in the air. 

\---

 

Weeks ticked by and he hadn't a heard a single word about the verdict of his trial. By the time he had slipped into the third month of imprisonment, Martin had stopped asking for news from the guards. He had lost all hope of ever seeing the world beyond the walls of Coldridge.

\---

 

Corvo sighed as he slung his feet over the edge of the rooftop, his boots swung lazily in the open air, his long dark hair ruffled gently in the afternoon breeze. He glanced over at Daud, who sat beside him stiffly, as he always did. Daud never appeared to relax; even in times when the two of them settled with a bottle of whiskey and a chess board between them, the man never seemed to leave his work behind, his mind always seemed elsewhere. For a while Corvo thought it was him who made Daud so uncomfortable, perhaps he reminded Daud of what he'd done to the Empress, or maybe he reminded him of Serkonos. It took him a long time to realise that Daud was just a very serious man.

"I'm glad that you've allowed us to become friends." Corvo said casually, as if discussing the weather. He looked down at the chequered board between them, weighing up his options, and then gripped a white knight between his long fingers and moved it three spaces diagonally, putting the black castle out of play.

Daud, barely glancing at the board or Corvo, snorted. "Friends?" He said, a brow raised with something close to disdain, effortlessly putting his queen into position.

"Of course." Corvo replied. "Why? What would you label our relationship as?"

"Tolerance. Perhaps with a siding of pity on your part and a little of guilt on mine." Daud says as a slight frown marks his lips. "Friendship implies mutual trust. I know for a fact that you don't trust me and I certainly don't trust you."

It was true enough. Corvo had been sure to check, and double check, Daud's movements over the past few months. He had been thorough too, and the fact that every check came back clean should have comforted him, but it hadn't. His sleep was troubled, a pistol always tucked beneath his pillow, and he often lay awake expecting to hear the gentle click of the balcony doors of his room opening and feel a blade pressed to his throat. Corvo did not trust Daud, but then Corvo didn't trust anybody. He had made that mistake before and had suffered the consequences. Although trust was out of the question, as were _forgiveness_ and other abominations, Corvo certainly held a large amount of respect for the old assassin.

A slight smile curves the corners of his lips as he looks out over the rooftops of the Flooded District, silently counting the few eavesdropping Whalers that failed to hide themselves efficiently. Daud had built himself a nice empire, Corvo thought to himself, his men were so fiercely loyal to their master. It was difficult not to admire a man who upheld order in a time of absolute chaos, whose men were reverent and nothing like those Bottle Street thugs, Daud was a man of meticulous planning and painstaking detail, not even in the same league as a lowly criminal. He had an air about him that simply deserved the utmost respect.

He was intelligent too, thorough and methodical, and indispensable. Corvo had explained, choosing his words very carefully, to the young Empress that Daud was a man worth knowing. Responsible for the death of an Empress, Corvo's love and Emily's mother, but the assassin was but a weapon. There was no point in blaming the knife for a murder when the hand that wielded it had been dealt with. Daud knew Dunwall and he knew its people, and for that reason he was valuable.

"I wouldn't think too much, Attano. I hear it's dangerous." Daud scorned, turning his attention back to the game between them. He noticed that Corvo had moved one of his king a space forward, right into the path of Daud's queen. He rolled his eyes, it was as if the Lord Protector hadn't been paying attention. He swiped the white piece off of the board and glanced up at the other man. "Checkmate."

Corvo's eyes flicked down to the board and then back up at Daud absently. "I should go, I have a meeting with General Tobias in an hour. But before I do, I have something for you."

Corvo buried a hand into his coat, patting down the numerous pockets, and - _really_ , what use can a man have for that many pockets? - eventually pulled out a small envelope. He held it out to Daud, and he accepted it wearily. He weighed the heavy and almost yellow-toned paper in his hands for a moment, examining the loosely scrawled name - _his_ name- on the front, and then flipped it over to see the blood red of the Empress's seal. He looked up at Corvo, with something similar to confusion flooding his grey eyes, a plea for the Lord Protector to _take it back_ dying in his throat.

Corvo attempted a half-smile, although there was an awkward tightness to it, as if he was unaccustomed to polite and courtly smiles. A strange bleakness in his eyes. "Her Majesty sends her regards."  He said in an alien tone. And with a slight tensing of his left hand, he was gone.

Daud looked down at the envelope and then back up at the skeletal rooftops of the city around him. He didn't need to read it. Didn't want to. He already knew what that envelope contained. It was the future he had given wholly to Corvo when the man had held a blade to his throat, when all he deserved was death and yet he asked for life, a contract and a dotted line to be signed. It was his silent apology, Corvo's reluctance to forgive, it was a punishment and a death sentence. It was a pardon.

\---

 

It took a lot less time to pack his things than he thought it would. And that had surprised him. To think that Daud had spent the best part of 27 years in Dunwall and all he had to show for it was a rugged and rusting old trunk half-filled with crap. Honestly, it was almost embarrassing.

The trunk contained things that held information that may be relevant to his new role, there was very few items of sentimental value. He was not a sentimental man, he had learned long ago not to cling to items from the past, it was a reckless business that left a man's mind divided with what was and what could have been, when really it would be more efficient if such thoughts were ignored. It was practical. But, Daud wasn't entirely heartless - as much as he wished he were - and there were several things bundled at the bottom of the trunk; hidden. One of his mother's journals, a sketchbook from his childhood, a filthy bone charm wrapped in a linen cloth, and a small worn leather-bound book. Things, not people, not memories. Cold hard objects hidden at the bottom of the trunk.

He swung the lid shut and glanced around the office once more. It was a large room, crumbling and littered with desks and rotting bookshelves, with its now blank walls and bare floors. Almost too large for one person, and it never struck him how large it really was until he'd awoken alone in his bed the morning after Martin left.

And it felt larger still without the posters or paperwork scattered across the surfaces of the desks. That had been one of the first jobs, sorting through every scrap of paper and dictating what was important enough to keep and what would be joining the rather big - and growing - pyre his men had built in one of the empty shells of the buildings in the area. He could see the smoke rising from the chipped teeth of Flooded Districts skyline.

"Sir," Thomas appeared to his left, bringing with him the bitter scent of charcoal and smoke, his boots were blackened and there were grey smudges covering his coat. And in his hands he held a small bundle of audiographs and letters. Daud raised his brow at the man's filthy state and crossed his arms over his chest expectantly. "I saved these from the pyre, they seemed too...important to burn. Perhaps you could look over them."

He accepted the bundle wordlessly, tutted when he saw that the collection wasn't quite important enough to be spared from Thomas's ash-covered gloves, and then grunted when he noticed Martin's neat handwriting on one of the envelopes. He placed the bundle on the lid of the trunk, less gracefully than he would have liked.

"I'm not sure it's worth my time, we don't have long until Attano and those brutish City Watch arrive to clear this place out. Just tell the others to keep the smoke to a minimum, we don't want to attract the wrong kind of attention, alright? I'm sure no one here wants to be dealing with those Bottle Street bastards or any weepers today. What are the numbers looking like?"

Thomas clasped his hands behind his back and stood with his back perfectly straight and his feet square, and it struck him how remarkably similar his stance was to that of a soldier, all things considered. "Better than expected. About 30% of the men remain, the majority left in the early hours of the morning, I heard talk of Petro and Zachary starting a new gang on their own, but most seemed to be heading to the port."

"Good, hopefully they'll get away from this damned city. As for Petro and Zachary...well, they're skilled men, but lacking in finesse, so it'll be interesting to see what becomes of their little gang." Daud nodded, approving.

"You're not...angry?" Thomas asked, his tone was uneasy and he titled his head slightly as if examining a difficult lock. An unusual break in his otherwise flawless military-esque report.

"Why would I be angry? I didn't expect anyone to stay, and certainly not 30%. That's a good figure." Daud said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"May I ask what you intend to do with these men? I understand that the Lord Protector insisted on disbanding the Whalers."

Daud pulled out a cigarette, which he had been refraining from smoking all day due to his rapidly decreasing supply, and lit it. He intentionally took his time, letting the smoke fill his lungs, it was warm like passing a hand over the flames of a fire, and watching as the tendrils of smoke escaped his lips fluidly and painted the air. Thomas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and Daud's grey eyes fell onto his second in command. He took his time because he could, a reminder that it was _he_ who was in charge, a reminder to his subordinates that he doesn't have to answer, he only did so because he wanted to. Not the other way around.

"Hiram Burrows was an obsessive and paranoid fool, he saw risks where there was none, took measures that didn't need to be taken. However, Burrows had reliable resources that proved to be quite useful to his role as Royal Spymaster. He had a secret police whose job was to spy on the citizens of Dunwall and hunt down conspirators." Daud replied, tapping the end of cigarette and watching the ash crumble to the floorboards. "Not much will change for the Whalers, the lack of a name and a new uniform being greatest,  and of course no more mildew and river krusts. You'll still be killing, but not for greedy nobles, everything we do will ensure the stability and safety of the crown."

Thomas nodded thoughtfully as he prepared for a transversal. "Thank you, sir, I will inform the others."

Daud waved his hand in dismissal and turned toward the trunk, pressing his cigarette to his lips again as he swept the pile of letters from the lid. He sorted through them, as promised, and found that the letters in question were mostly from Martin.  It was strange, reading about events and topics that expired months, if not years, before. And he could hear Martin's voice as he read the man's neat and precise handwriting, heard his laugh at each slip of the ink, his sighs in the blotches and smudges. Most of the letters were not to be seen by anothers eyes, too obscene to be polite conversation or an exchange of information, too _personal_.

He couldn't keep them. It was too big a risk. If anyone did find them...he didn't dare to think about the consequences. The Abbey of the Everyman was strict and dangerous, everything was heresy in their eyes, everything was a threat and had to be destroyed. He had heard of men and women alike who had been burned for much less. The strictures and the Abbey aside, it would do either of them no good in the eyes of the Royal Court.

He couldn't keep them... but he wanted to.

\---

 

Martin had learnt, through overhearing snippets of conversations between guards and prisoners alike, that Havelock had been detained in cell block C. For a long time, he'd carefully examine every prisoner's face he'd encounter in the brief periods they were permitted to walk in the courtyard, and not once did he spy Havelock. He wondered whether he was intentionally being kept away from the old Admiral. He wondered what he'd do if he saw him again. He laughed at the thought of the Admiral's blood dripping from his hands, staining the dirt of the courtyard red like the blood of the Loyalists Havelock had shot dead at the Hounds Pits, those shark eyes forever unblinking. Martin held that image in his mind every time he entered the courtyard.

Weeks later, he heard that Havelock had left for a one-way trip to Pandyssia.

\---

 

"Fifteen minutes. That's all I'm giving you. Outsider knows why Corvo supports this whole thing. Just.. do whatever it is you came here to do and leave." Captain Curnow muttered as he unlocked the steel door.

Daud said nothing as he stepped inside the room and waited for Curnow to shut the door behind him.

It was a small and confined space, with pale concrete walls that were chipped along the edges and marred with angry cracks, rat droppings and dirt collecting in the corners. A singular metal table sitting snugly at the centre, its sides near touching the walls. Martin sat with his back flush against his chair, shoulders square, and perfectly still, waiting. After watching him from the shadows for years Daud had learnt to gauge the man's emotions from his body language, and although he had his back to him, Daud could see that Martin was uncomfortably rigid.

"I was beginning to think that you'd never turn up." Martin said quietly, his voice rough.

It was too late to turn back now. He took his seat across from Martin and took his time in examining the other man. He was pale, paler than Daud remembered him being. His skin shimmered with a light coating of sweat and grime, illuminated by the static white light hanging above them, and he could see the blushing of a bruise on the underside of his jaw. His once neat hair was unruly and unwashed, exhaustion had hollowed out his cheeks and left dark shadows under his empty blue eyes, his jaw now coated with a thick layer of dark stubble, giving him a very gruff look that was so distant to the clean and proper Martin he'd once known. His frame was leaner, thinner...

"Yes, well, I've been busy-"

"I thought you'd left for Serkonos." Martin interrupted him, pale blue eyes flicking up to meet his gaze, pinning him to the spot.

"No." Daud shook his head slightly. "That was _our_ plan, I wasn't going to leave without you. It wouldn't feel right, leaving you behind."

A brief moment of silence washed over the room. A slight chill in the air sent a shiver glazing across his skin, and Daud was surprised to find himself missing the heavy Spymasters coat Corvo had insisted he wear when in the Tower, but Daud had shrugged it off at every available opportunity. It just... didn't _suit_ him. The long black coat, the gold embellishments, that uncomfortably high collar. It wasn't him. Worn red leather and boots coated in river muck, now that was far more practical and great deal more comfortable, each scuff and scrap had become as familiar to him as his own scars. When he wore that Spymasters coat, he didn't feel like Daud the legendary assassin, he felt more like that hook-nosed Burrows. And that was not a man he wished to be like.

"So," Martin's voice, now rough with months of few words, disturbed the near-still air of the small room; ending the silence. "How are things?"

Daud raised a brow as he watched the other man curiously; this was not what he had expected. Idle conversation was not something they had ever taken part in; rough and lustful sex, yes; plans and politics, occasionally; but this? This was like two prattling nobles at one of those damned parties Daud had had the pleasure of crashing once or twice in the past. "Things?"

"In the Flooded District, your men, Dunwall, _you_. Take your pick. I'm not exactly in the loop at the moment and you're the first person I've spoken to in months, so please, how are things?" He spoke with his usual nonchalant tone, yet there was an edge of exasperation that spoke of their steadily decreasing amount of time, and the endless days of silence that lay before the ex-Overseer.

Daud sat very still as he contemplated his words. It was hard to reduce months of change, of innovation and progress, of ends and new beginnings, into a few sentences. So much had happened, and Martin knew of none of it. "Sokolov and that other natural philosopher - Piero, was it? - have begun trials for what could be a cure to the plague. They've started sending City Watch into back alleys and abandoned buildings to clear the city of Weepers. The Empress has had several buildings near Dunwall Tower cleared for survivors to take refuge.  Slowly, the city is being pieced back together."

Martin nodded slightly as he absorbed the bout of information, brow creased with contemplation, eyes still grazing over the chains around his wrists and avoiding Daud's gaze. "Good, that's really good. And what about the Abbey? I don't see many Overseers from my cell, although they still play that grizzly music over the speakers."

"Yes, well, the Abbey of the Everyman isn't as stable as it was. Losing two High Overseer's in the space of a week hasn't given it the best of reputations, although there is another bigoted idiot running the place now, calls himself High Overseer Bryant."

"And yourself?"

Daud hesitated. It wasn't as if he intended to keep his title from Martin, it just happened to be easier not to say anything. Besides, Martin may be executed, or worse, he could never see beyond the confining walls of Coldridge; it felt too much like kicking him in the gut. No, it was cruel beyond words to speak of pardons and titles to a man in a cell. "I'm getting by."

 "Well you're alive, that's something. Although I'm a little curious as to why you're not in a cell as well, you were the one to slay the Empress after all. The ever-merciful Lord Protector seems to like keeping his enemies behind bars, I hear." Martin sighed. Himself, Havelock, Burrows, and perhaps even Pendleton (going by Havelock's previous attempts at poison, and its survival rate, it was likely the drunken noble lived) had been locked up and forced to wait for their fate. And as far as he knew, he was the only one who still lives.

"It not mercy, Martin. There is a reason why Corvo never killed anyone, even despicable men like ourselves, and it wasn't out of the warmth of his heart. Death would have been a kindness."

"The ultimate punishment: ourselves." Martin said dryly, looking up at Daud, his eyes so painfully dark.

"Precisely. A dead man can't feel penitence. A dead man can't regret. Knowing what we have done, of all the pain and the chaos we have caused, and living with it every day - that is a man's true punishment."

"So it is." Martin said forlornly, a pale hand gripping his wrist, a blushing of red blossoming where the cuffs chaffed against his skin. Slowly, almost shyly, Daud's hand covered his own, the soft leather of his gloves gliding over his skin like a chill in his bones. A slight smile crept on to the corners of Martin's lips.

"I'm curious; why did you kill the Empress? It wasn't the coin, I've known you to turn down contracts with much larger sums of coin than that brute Burrows paid you. So what was it?"

Daud's hand stilled, fingers freezing mid-stroke against Martin's skin. "The decision to kill an Empress was not an easy one. I didn't accept straight away, I walked away and considered all the risks beforehand. I knew that Jessamine's hands were all that were holding the city together, that my killing her would cause the whole place to crumble. But Dunwall was already crumbling. Half the city had been lost to the plague, and the other half were at each other's throats, and the Empress, as much as she tried, wasn't going to fix that. One woman wasn't going to change anything, Dunwall was doomed."

"And you wanted to be the one responsible. The power to turn a whole city into dust and walk away unharmed. Being a shadow in a world of darkness wasn't enough for you. You did it for the same reasons I did." Martin thought aloud, his head tilting to the side as he watched Daud's face tighten with discomfort.

"I'll admit, it was an attractive thought. There's something liberating in getting away with something as awful as murder, especially that of an entire city. But power and an ego boost were not the only reasons. Burrows didn't just offer me money. I was also paid in elixir, and not that Bottle Street shit, the good stuff. Straight from Sokolov's own lab."

"I thought Serkonans were immune to the plague?"

"Well, for the most part, we are. But you're forgetting that I'm responsible for a large number of men, if one of them caught the plague it would be a serious problem. And in that month, I'd lost three. The elixir I received was a lifeline for my men, without it many would be dead."

Martin's smile returned, only softer, the corners of his lips turning up in a bitter smirk."One life in exchange for a eighty or so others. Touching, truly, but it didn't quite work out that way. Death is greedy, and the Empress gave it an appetite, wasn't long before it had the rest of Dunwall between its teeth. But I've seen you pace around that old office of yours, a cigarette pressed between your lips, and eyes so dark you'd put the Outsider to shame. You regret it, don't you? Would you change it, if you could?"

Daud frowned slightly at the mention of the whale god, but didn't press Martin further on the subject. Martin was a religious man, after all. Instead, he turned the other man's hands over, exposing his pale and nail-bitten palms. He felt an urge to trace the lines of his hands, to learn more about the ex-Overseer through the markings, but instead he simply rested his hands over Martin's, and let Martin's fingers curl instinctively around his own. "Do you regret what you did?"

"You're changing the subject." Martin's eyes, which had been following Daud's fingers contently, fluttered up to meet Daud's, holding him with a subversive and steady gaze.

"Am I?"                                                   

Martin tightened the loose grip on Daud's hands for a short moment, he lowered his gaze and sank a little deeper in his chair. A small sigh escaped from his lips. "Yes."

"Then we've reached an understanding."

"I suppose we have."

A sudden and impatient knock on the metal door stole their attention, Daud looked up to see Captain Curnow's face through the small window, his gaze lacking respect and decency. Titles, it seemed, didn't matter to Curnow, Daud held a higher title than that of the Captain of the City Watch and still he treated him like a thug. A true man of the law, apparently.

"Out of time." Daud murmured, raising a hand to gently tilt Martin's chin up, those wondrous blue eyes meeting his. And then, he leaned across the table and met Martin's lips. He tasted sweeter than he remembered, and warmer, and oh...how he had missed kissing him. He clutched the fine hairs at the base of Martin's skull and pulled him closer, but never quite close enough. He kissed him with a hunger, a raw and unsatisfied hunger he'd tried so hard to forget, but would never fade. There was a rustle of chains as Martin tried to lift his hands in an attempt to hold Daud close, but the restraints binding him were cruelly short. He whimpered into Daud's mouth, and Daud held him tighter, kissed him deeper, and then released him.

"Another time, maybe." Daud said quietly with swollen lips, his thumb passing over the curve of Martin's cheekbone. He pressed his lips to the ex-Overseer's nose fleetingly and then stood.

"I'll hold you to that." Martin smiled, blushing slightly as he caught Curnow's iron gaze through the window in the door. Daud left the small room without looking back and then Martin was alone again.

\---

 

It was silent. A silence so vast that it seemed to swallow the entire prison, devouring strained voices and echoing footsteps, it unnerved him. He sat at the steel table patiently, the chains connecting his cuffs had been passed through a loop in the centre of the table which prevented much of his movement, and he waited. Patience, it seemed, was the key to surviving Coldridge. Entire days would pass without as much of as a passing word from a guard, hours of endless silence and nothing to do but listen to the scurrying of rats from the corner of his cell. He had waited months, possibly more than a year, for word from the Empress. A year of watching the mould crawl across the walls of his cell, of rats and fleas, of silence. A year had passed since Corvo had taken him from Daud's base, and finally the Empress had decided that he was worth a moment of her time. And suddenly hours felt longer than months, minutes stretched on for eternity, it felt as if decades had passed in those short few hours before her arrival.

The child was late. When Attano had thrust open the iron door, followed by an entourage of elite guards and at the centre of it all the young Empress, Martin didn't even turn his head. Emily, or Her Majesty as Martin had been instructed to call her, sat delicately on the chair opposite him.

She looked so out of place. Far too regal in her silken pale blue blouse with gold trim, her dark brown hair longer than he remembered and embellished with a golden pin strikingly similar to her mother's, and a steady and unyielding gaze similar to her father's. She seemed older than her years, only eleven years old and she had the weight of an Empire on her slender shoulders, yet her back was straight and her delicate chin raised, perfectly trained to deal with the weight. So distant to the child he'd found colouring in the bar that one morning, the girl who had begged for tales of pirates and adventure, who had hidden from Callista and stolen tartlets when she thought no one was looking. Her tutors had taught her well.

Still, she was late, and he told her so.

"An Empress is never late." Emily had told him with a practiced voice, and gave him a small flash of a smile.

"And a fair Empress you are, your Majesty. Tell me, is that your mother's pin? It looks wonderful." Martin had said in the most polite way he could. It had sounded far too forced, as did the smile he wore, but the Empress didn't seem to notice. Corvo, however, did and his grip tightened on the back of Emily's chair. The Lord Protector's eyes were dark as he glared at Martin. Martin paid the bodyguard no attention, his blue eyes were entirely focussed on the Empress.

"Yes, it is, thank you for noticing." Her smile faltered for a split second before she corrected herself. She turned to Corvo, who handed her a thick envelope, which she set on the table and pressed her small palms against the thick paper. "I trust you understand what brings me here today."

"Of course." Martin answered. He leant back against his chair, his chains rustling as he pulled his hands back as far as his cuffs would allow, and then gave the young Empress a small wry smile. "How could I forget."

"After a lengthy debate with my Imperial Court regarding your fate, I have come to a decision. Now, before we get to business, I want you to know that I never intended to end the lives of any of the conspirators. My aim has been and always will be to preserve every life, even the lives of those who wish to harm me."

"That's very noble of you." He replied curtly.

"My mother taught me that being noble has nothing to do with wealthy bloodlines or titles. All that counts are actions. It’s about being good because you have a duty to be good. And I hope that this past year has taught you that, Teague." The Empress regarded him with her large brown eyes, carefully dissecting him in a way he thought would be impossible from a child of her age, and he stared back defiantly.

It had. Coldridge _had_ taught him that. A year of reflection and evaluation, and yes he had learnt something. He had learnt that the facade of the strictures had amounted to nothing and that his hands were bloodier than they had ever been. He had learnt that corrupt actions, no matter how noble the aim, only aided the corruption. The Abbey, the strictures, all those sermons about being a beacon of light amidst a sea of heresy, and yet he himself has acted dishonourably. He had thought that climbing a mountain of bodies was his only option of reaching power, and he had been okay with that, but there were other ways. Corvo, their damned assassin of all people, proved that there was _always_ another way. If only he hadn't been so blind...

"Is that what this was all about?" He yanked at the chain between his hands, pale fingers clasping the cuffs around his wrists, partially exposing the reddened skin beneath. His eyes were bright with fury and the Lord Protector stiffened behind the Empress. "It was all a lesson?"

"Partially." The Empress nodded. "Although not entirely. The Royal Court was very...thorough in presenting an opinion, and admittedly I was reluctant to reach a decision. And then there were matters to discuss with the Ascending Circle-" She stopped herself, realising that she was rambling, and paused to correct her mistake. Her youth and inexperience were beginning to shine through. She picked up the envelope, her small fingers tracing its edges, before sliding it in front of him. "Perhaps it would be best if you read it for yourself."

Martin leant forward, opening the heavy paper of the envelope and sliding out a thick collection of papers, all marked with the Empress's gilded seal. A letter followed by a series of contracts awaiting his signature; they were his terms. He flicked his gaze back to Emily, as if seeking permission, and she gestured for him to continue. Martin read the letter first, and then twice, and again. The words didn't seem to make sense to him, and he squinted at the carefully scrawled handwriting, the writing of a child playing at being an adult, and through the shaking of his hands and the bleariness of his vision he read once more.

"I don't understand." He said. He looked up at Emily, and at Corvo who stood a little way behind her. The former smiled brightly at him, flashing her white teeth, in a way that reminded him of the child who had leaned over a bar with crayons clutched in her hands.

"You've been pardoned. Your crimes against the Empire have been forgiven and you have been given a clean slate. A second chance to prove that to me that you can do good." She gestured at the papers. "Now if you read the contract you'll find what it is that I am proposing."

He thumbed through the rest of the papers, and there were quite a few of them, he knew that he would need more time than it was polite in the presence of the Empress to fully understand its contents. He was a thorough man, a tactician, and he was quite familiar with how contracts worked. And he could not stress how important it was to _know_ what it was that he was being asked to sign. He was expecting deportation to Tyvia, forced labour at one of those desolate mines dotted throughout Gristol, or perhaps the cruel decks of a whaling ship sailing around the globe. Yet, from what he could gather in that brief moment, the preposition at hand was much more surprising.

"High Overseer?" Martin looked up from the printed words to eye the Empress suspiciously. "You want to _me_ to be the Head of the Abbey of the Everyman?"

"Yes. Now if you could just sign-"

"Why?" Martin interrupted her. Emily looked at him in surprise, she hadn't expected to be interrupted by him of all people, the man who had no right to even _speak_ to her after all he'd done. She pursed her lips and folded her hands elegantly on her lap; waiting. "Why me?"

"The Ascending Circle failed to choose a more suitable candidate." She disclosed, in a very vague manner. Martin raised a brow; my, what a politician they'd made her out to be.

"They were all snakes. None could be trusted." Corvo commented dryly, speaking for the first time since their arrival. Martin met the Lord Protector's gaze for a brief moment and then looked away. Attano had a habit of looking at a person with such intensity that it physically hurt to look into the man's dark eyes.

"And I can?"

"No. But you can be monitored." Attano said with a bland tone, though his brow was low and his gaze hard; a threat.

Monitored. He laughed, a laugh so frantic and hoarse he almost choked, it echoed awkwardly around the small room and left a slight frown on Her Majesty's lips. Martin pressed a trembling hand over his mouth to suppress the hopeless noise and he glared down at the scratched surface of the table. They want to monitor him. He was to be transferred from one prison to another, to be paraded in front of the citizens of Dunwall, the whole of the Empire, paraded like a dog on a leash.

He didn't know whether to thank them or curse them.

 -

 _to be_ _continued..._ ~~  
~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Already want more? Read the sequel, _the rising storm_ now :)


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